PS 3511 
E56 P8 
1914 
Copy 1 



THE PURSUIT OF 
^PAMELA 



A COMEDY 



C. B.^T^ERNALD 

Author of " The Gat and the Cherub," " The 

Moonhght Blossom," "98-9," "The 

Married Woman" 



Copyright, 1914, by Samuel French, Limited. 



New York 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30 WEST 38TH STREET 



London 
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd 
26 Southampton Street 

STRAND 



5\V 

^ '^5.^? 



MAR -4 1914 
0)C!.D 36237 



THE PLJrS OF C. B. FERNALD. 

THE CAT AND THE CHURUB. 

6d. 

A TRAGEDY OF CHINATOWN. 

In One Act. 

(Probably the most played One Act Play in the language.) 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. 

A Comedy in Three Acts. 
(Originally produced by the Stage Society, June, 191 1). 



" A curiously haunting play. Many of the lines like two-ec 
swords." — Daily Express. 

" Distinctly refreshing, placing many topics in a new light." — 
Birmingham Daily Post. 

" Very clearly Mr. Fernald struck the keynote of thousands of 
disharmonious marriages. The author of The Married Woman 
proves himself just as competent as the author of Getting Married ; 
and the difference between the two is that Mr. Fernald is wholly 
coherent, and that there is true human feeling in the characterization 
of the two leading personages. It has the quality of outspokenness 
whilst never violating decorum." — Sunday Times. 

" Hardly an uninteresting moment in the whole of the three 
acts." — The A cadcmy . 

" The brisk, true dialogue, the wit, the freshness, and the charm, 
and the serious thought behind it, carry one on from page to page 
irresistibly." — Votes tor Women. 

" All this sounds as if The Married Woman were a dull tract, 
whereas it is a very clever, truly amusing comedy, which surprised, 
puzzled, and delighted the audience when I saw it. The work is 
interesting because thoughtful, and written with so much talent 
and sincerity that it will shake the ideas even of some of those 
opposed to what they assume to be the author's views. Mr. 
Fernald has rendered every scene entertaining by use of a fertile 
caustic wit." — Westminster Gazette. 

" Mr. Fernald deserves the highest praise for presenting a most 
intimate record of that spiritual stress which follows upon the 
consumm.ation of the marriage passion. Not only brilliantly 
witty but astonishingly true to life." — Wolverhampton Chronicle. 

" Mr. Fernald's persons are never mere mouth-pieces airing 
views. They are human beings. The dialogue has not merely 
the wit absolute, but the wit relative." — The Morning Post. 

" xAn extremely interesting comedy on marriage. A _ comedy of 
mordant irony, brilliant and witty, holding up a lofty ideal of sex 
relationship. ' The Married Woman could be described in a way 
that would frighten nine-tenths of our playgoers ; whereas in fact 
it is a verv wittv, diverting comedy. A verv clever interesting 
play."— TJie Sketch. 



The Fee for eacli and every representation of this 
play by Amateurs is Five Guineas, payable in advance 
to— 

Messrs. Samuel French, Ltd., 

23 Southampton Street, 

Strand, London, 

or their authorised representatives. 

There is no reduction for subsequent consecutive 
performances of the play. 

No performance may be given unless a written 
permission has first been xMained. 

All the costumes, wigs, and properties used in the 
performance of plays contained in French's list may 
he hired or purchased reasonably from Messrs. Charles 
H. Fox, Ltd., 27, Wellington Street, Strand, London. 



VI 



Printed on the occasion of the 12 $th performance. 

THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA, 

By C. B. FERNALD. 

First produced at The Ro^^alty Theatre, London, November 
4, 191 3, with the following cast : — 

Alan Creame . . . . Mr. Denis Eadie. 

Peter Dodder .... Mr. Eric Lewis. 

John Dodder {his brother) . Mr. Campbell Giillan. 

Doctor Joyce .... Mr. George Tidly. 

Fah-Ni (a Chinese Servant . . Mr. Azooma Sheko. 

Haranobu (A Japanese Innkeeper) Mr. J. Z. Cobv. 

Janet {A Waitress) . . . Miss Olga Ward. 

Ume San {A Japanese Maid) . Miss Aya Zamada. 

Nurse Tracey .... Miss Eve Balfour. 

Pamela, nee Belihorne . . Miss Gladys Cooper. 

A Honolulu Cabman, A Kanaka Porter, Chinese Servants, 
Japanese Servants and Coolies. 



THE SCENES 

ACT I 

A Hotel Garden at Waikiki, near Honolulu, Hawaiian. 
Islands. 

ACT II 

The Grounds of an Inn at " Tsuhoyama," Japan, jour wseks 

lat^'. 

ACT III 

Pamela's House at Hong Kong, six weeks later. 

ACT IV 

A Veranda in the mountains of Alberta, three years later. 



" The Pursuit of PameLa Waltz," played in the third and 
fourth acts, is published by Messrs. Keith, Prowse & Co. 



VI 11 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA 

ACT I 

A Hotel Garden at Waikiki, near Honolulu, Hawaiian 
Islands. 

(Peter Dodder paces back and forth in irritation 
and quandary. He is 60, fussy and ineffectuoil. 
He carries an open cablegram, to which he refers near- 
sightedly through his spectacles. He takes off one 
pair of spectacles; squints through the lenses of 
another pair, puts the first pair on the larger table 
as enter Janet with a tray. She is 20, prettv and 
sentimental. He squints severely at her. She 'sighs, 
as lackadaisically she starts putting things on the 
tray from the smaller table.) 

Peter [sternly). Young woman ! Have any 
ladies come to this hotel to-day, from off the San 
Francisco steamer ? 

Janet. No, sir. 

Peter. You are sure ? 

Janet. Yes, Mr. Dodder. (She keeps looking 
back to whence she came.) Only one gentleman, from 
on the steamer. 

[He refers again to his cablegram, changing his spec- 
tacles.) 

Peter. Have any ladies arrived, ostensibly not 
from off the steamer ? 

Janet. No, sir. 

Vi^TUR (approaching her). I said "ladies"— 
plural. Now 1 make my question more specitic. \ Has 

1 R 



L> THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

any kind of female, singular, from anywhere, put up 
at this hotel to-day ? • 

Janet [bored). No, sir. 

Peter. No young person with a certain air of 
guileless innocence — a certain childlike self-posses- 
sion ? 

Janet. No, sir. 

Peter [darkly, admonishing). She had a blue 
ostrich feather in her hat. 

Janet. Who did ? 

Peter. Never mind. I see vou do not start with 
guilt. If you were guilty, I should detect there- 
faction on your nervous system. 

Janet. Guilty of what ? 

-Peter. Never mind. Only, remember this — 
I am the greatest authority in the world on the 
fem.alc spider. If anything untoward liappens here, 
remember that ! 

Janet. What's going to happen, Mr. Dodder ? 

Peter [pacing up and down). That's my affair. At 
least, it has been thrust on me and made my affair. 

Janet. Your affair with a young woman ? 

Peter. Certainly not ! [Again he pores over the 
cablegram.) Who is the gentleman who came from off 
the steamer ? 

Janet. Mr. Greame. He was here two years 
ago, you remember. 

Peter. Him ! Is Mr. Greame the kind of man 
ypung women take a fancy to ? 

Janet. Yes. 

Peter. On short acquaintance ? 

Janet. Yes. 

Peter. Why ? 

Janet. He's always so sympathetic. 

Peter. Shocking \ What does he want to be 
that for ? • 

Janet [witJi a shrug). Oh, I suppose Heaven 
meant him to make trouble. (She points to another 
part of the garden.) There he is ! 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 3 

Peter {through his second pair oj spectacles). I 
•can't see at such a distance. 

Janet. Not with either pair of spectacles ? You 
miss something. He's writing her name in the sand. 

Peter (jumping up). Hah ! Whose name ? 

Janet. I don't know. He keeps writing her name. 

Peter. Go and see whose name it is. 
■ Janet. No. He'd only kick it out. Then he'd 
turn to me just as if it had been my name he was 
writing. But it isn't. 

Peter. How do you know ? 

Janet. Oh, I have my wa^^ of knowing. It's 
a queer workl. 

Peter. Not for a student of the female spider. 
For me there is no mystery about any woman — ■ 
except why she was ever created. I am going 
to indulge in a prophecy. There will appear here, 
sooner or later, a certam young woman who desires 
to avoid pursuit. At her first difficulty she will 
appeal to you, as the only other woman on the 
premises, to help her to evade pursuit. When that 
happens, remember this : no woman has ever made 
a fool of me ! 

Janet. But I never thought a woman had, Mr^ 
Dodder. 

(Enter Alan Greame.) 
It's too well done for a woman's work. 
(Exit.) 

Peter. Eh ? What ! What ! 

(Alan Greame is 30, a fine English type, with a 
quizzical humour. He laughs) , . 

Greame. I heard that last passage, Mr. Dodder. 
How do you do ! 

Peter (deprecatingly). How do you do, young 
man. On which ot those two steamers did you 
arrive ? 

Greame. On the one from San Franciso. Things 



4 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

have gone smash with me since I saw you last. In 
fact, I seriously thought of travelhng second-clasR 
But, thank Heaven, I didn't. 

Peter (narrowly). And in the course of events you 
met a young and well-dressed solitary woman ? 

Greame. She wasn't solitary after I met her. 
Such an exquisite young widow ! 

Peter. Widow ! H'm ! With a certain air of 
guileless innocence ? A certain childhke self-pos- 
session ? (They sit at th^ larger tahh.) 

Greame. All of that ! All of that ! And a full 
moon. And a warm soft breoz3 from the s^uth. 
And music floating up from the promenade deck. 
After one leaves these beautiful islands one won't see 
visions like that again. Such is life. 

Peter. With a blue ostrich feather in her hit — ■ — ? 

Greame. Blue ostrich feather ? No. Bit the 
sea was blue and her eyes were blue. We sit to- 
gether every evening (humorously) moaviiag for 
her late husband. 

Peter. H'm! " her late hu^biid!" HovV d3 
you know she had a late husband ? 

Greame. Because she told me so. She was so 
wonderfully ingenuous ! 

Peter. H'm ! 

Greame. And the very sweetest of tempers ! 
Mr. Dodder, do you know what is the most perfect 
work of man ? Of course you don't. The most 
perfect work of man is his young widow. 

Peter. Tut-tut. 

Greame. No, no — our communion was utterly — • 
childlike. It was as if the spirit of her late lamented 
husband kept hovering over us. He was always 
in our thoughts. We sat together, so to speak, in 
her husband's shade. It must have been a comfort 
to him to know that I was there, able and ready to 
do for her 

Peter. Everything he could have done for her 
himself. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 5 

Greame. But it's all over, now. In a few days 
I shall have left these blessed isles. I shall have seen 
the last of her. 

Peter. Then you'll have seen the best of her, 

Greame. How can you say so ? She was so 
beautiful, so ingenuous, so responsive, so angehc f 

Peter. Then it's time to become suspicious. 

Greame. Ah — but you haven't seen Mrs. Towne ! 

Peter [glancing at the cablegram). " Mrs. Towne ? " 
Who's Mrs. Towne ? 

Greame. Mrs. Towne — the lovely young widow 
I've been talking about. 

Peter. The widow — ^with the blue ostrich feather ? 

Greame. Ostrich feather ? I didn't see any 
ostrich feather. Women don't wear ostrich feathers 
at sea — it takes the curl out. But what the deuce 
have ostrich feathers to do with it ? 

Peter (decidedly, folding up his cablegram). The 
ostrich feather is in her trunk. 

Greame [imth some annoyance). Then why not let 
it stay there ? It isn't in your trunk ? 

Peter. It will be. \ 

Greame. What ? Do you know Mrs. Towne ? 

Peter. Never saw her. I wonder you didn't 
bring your widow here 

Greame. " Bring " her here ? She's not a person 
one " brings " anywhere. If you ask me why I 
didn't recommend this hotel to her, it was because 
she travels in better style. She had a whole flat 
on the steamer. Few people travel better than 
Mrs. Towne. x\nd there's another reason why I 
didn't suggest her coming here : her beauty is 
so noticeable that — one couldn't ignore the silly 
comment which would have followed our putting up 
at the same place. I recommended the big hotel at 
Honolulu for her. 

Peter (jumping up). Hah ! So she's at the big 
hotel in Honolulu ! vShe has landed here to stay, 
with her blue ostrich feather. Porter ! 



6 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Greame. Blue ostrich feather • ? Look her#, 

Mr. Dodder ; what is this about a blue ostrich 
feather ? Confound it, what have you to do with 
Mrs. Towne ? 

{Enter the Porter.) 

Peter. That's a question I may be asking of 
you, sir. Porter— call me an " express " — a cab, to 
take me to Honolulu. 

Porter. Yes, sir. 

(Exit.) 

Peter (taking up his hat). That's what I have to 
do with Mrs. Towne, sir. 

Greame. Are you going to call on her ? Do 
you know her ? 

Peter. I shall know her — the moment I see that 
blue ostrich feather. No woman has ever mads a 
fool of me, sir. 

. Greame. Then take my advice and don't call on 
Mrs. Towne. 

Peter. No ; — because there isn't any Mrs. Towne. 
And that is a fact which I shall convey to your " Mrs. 
Towne ! " 

(Exit.) 

Greame. He's quite addled. There is Mrs. 
Towne ! There too jolly well is Mrs. Towne ! (He 

thinks a moment, then nods to himself with decision.) 

(Enter Janet.) 

I say, Janet, — -I've changed my mind about staying 
in Hawaii. I'm going back to the steamer. I'm 
going on to Japan. 

Janet. O yes, I know what's the matter. On 
the steamer — you met a widow. 

Greame. You've been overhearing ? 

Janet. Didn't you overhear part of my talk with 
Mr. Dodder ? You're in love, Mr. Greame. 

Greame. Not already ? How can I be ? It's 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 7 

only a week since I lirst saw her. Janet, is this 
fair ? What have I done to make you think it has 
gone so far as that ? 

Janet. Oh, I know all the symptoms. I should, 
have known you wTre in love, simpl}/ by instinct, I 
suppose. 

Greame. But, my dear child, it's impossible for 
me to fall in love ! I haven't the money — not even 
for the preliminaries. I couldn't even pay for the 
flowers ! 

Janet. Oh, she'll take you. She's very well 
dressed. vShe'll have plenty of money. And she's 
in love with you already, whether she knows it or not. 

Greame. How do you know. You've never 
seen her. 

Janet. But I've seen you. To-day I know yoir 
better than she does. To-morrow she'll know you 
better than I do. Well, whatever she does, she 
mustn't deceive you. Mr. Dodder has a cablegram 
about your widow. Mr. Dodder thinks things 
about her. Some one is pursuing her, from a long 
v/ay off. She has some reason why she doesn't 
wish to be caught. I hope she's as fine as you say. 
But it's only fair that you should know this. 

Greame. I know you speak from the greatest 
good will, Janet. But Mr. Dodder is a suspicious 
old entomologist. What does an entomologist 
know about women ? I had rather consult a weather 
prophet. Mr. Dodder is simply confusing Mrs. 
Towne's identity. 

Janet. Then // she's as fine as you say 

Greame. She is as fine as I say. 

Janet. Then be good enough to marry her. Then 
I shall have you off my mind. 

Greame (laughing). Most sweet of you to put 'it 
that way. But I'm not in love with her. My head is 
perfectly clear. And I've a set purpose in life now, 
which mustn't be interfered with. I'm going to 
make my own living, Janet . I ' ve qualified for the bar 



8 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. '" 

since I saw you, I've bought a wig. I'm a barrister 
now ; and I'm on my way to Mindanao, in ftie 
Philippines, to start a poultry farm. 
. Janet. But why Mindanao ? 

Greame. Because I don't want any confounded 
lookers-on. 

Janet. But what do you know about poultry 
farming ? 

Greame (Immoro2'tsIy). I know all the legal side 
of it. I expect the chickens to know the rest. 

Janet. And where do you expect to sell your 
chickens ? 

Greame. Oh — one doesn't sell them, until they're 
hatched, does one ? 

Janet. Most certainly one does ! One oughtn't 
to hatch them until they are sold. Any woman will 
tell you that — any woman who was ever tempted to 
like you. 

(He looks up at her ; she alters.) 

You wish your things put back in your trunks ? 

Greame. Yes, please. (He nods thoughtfully.) 
Yes, my stopping off at all has been quite preposterous. 

(They shake hands.) 

Janet. Can I get you anything to drink, sir ? 

(Greame smiles and shakes his head. He paces 
pensively down R. She stops to see a Cabman 
enter and deposit a steamer trunk. Greame 
thoughtfully pokes the sand with his stick. Janet 
looks with ^sudden interest towards the entrance to 
the garden, at something she associates with Greame.) 

(Exit the Cabman.) 

Janet. vShc is as fine as you say. 

(Greame hut half hears her.) 

(She sighs.) Whoever she is ! 

(Exit Janet.) 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 9 

(Greame traces letters in the sand. Enter Pamela 
Belthorne. She carries a parasol over her shoulder. 
She looks eagerly after Janet and mounts the trunk 
to get a better view. Then her glance of interest 
in a new scene sweeps around to discover Greame, 
in his brown study. With much joy and mischievous- 
ness she drops her parasol to conceal her face. Then 
she softly gets down from the trunk and steals to see 
what letters he is writing.) 

Pamela (reading). " Pamela ! " 

(Pamela is about ig, extraordinarily unsophisticated 
and ingenuous. He wheels about and she hides 
herself behind her parasol.) 

Greame. Mrs. Towne. (He points to the sand.) 
You know I had just begun a letter to you ! 

Pamela. But I don't see why you sent me to that 
other hotel ? It was so far away. It was so lonely. 
They all kept staring at me ; and I didn't know any- 
body ! 

(Enter the Cabman with a second trunk:) 

And two old women asked me where my mother was. 
I've come where 3''0u are ! 

(Greame sees the blue ostrich feather in her hat and 

starts. She sees him staring blankly at it.) 
What's the matter ? My hat— ? 

Greame. Your blue ostrich feather ! 

Pamela. But isn't it on straight ? 

(He stares.) 
Don't you like it ? 

^ Greame. Oh, I do, I do ! (He drinks in her beauty. ) 
Since I saw you last it's been a frightfully dull two 
hours. 

Pamela. It's been awful ! 

(The Cabrian brings a third trunk.) 
(Greame and Pamela smile to each other.) 



10 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Greame. I suppose everybody's wearing t^Jue 
ostrich feathers this season ? 

Pamela. Oh, no ! I don't suppose any one is 
but me. You see, blue ostriches are frightfully rare. 
The man told me so. I had such a lot to learn when 
I left the wilderness ! Do vou know, up to the time 
I left Wallalup 

Greame (nodding). After your husband died. 

Pamela (unmoved by any sad memory). Yes, a 
few minutes after my husband died — 

(Greame marvels.) 

— up to that time I had never had anything cheerful 
to wear ?. I used to be all in one piece — buttoned 
down the back. My aunt said that if a girl is always 
buttoned down the back she is safe after she has 
been sent to bed — because she can't run away until 
she's been buttoned in again. Oh, that reminds me ! 
(She indicates two loose hooks in the hack of her bodice.) 
Please ! 

(He hooks them, looking at her ostrich feather, always 
fascinated.) 

I was in one piece, buttoned down the back, and 1 
wore a black patent leather hat with pink rubber 

plums. Thank you. But when I went away 

(She discovers the bath house and hurries to open the 
door and look in.) What's this ? 

Greame (preoccupied). A bath-house. 

Pamela. What fun ! (She looks to her trunks, 
with a new idea.) 

Greame (pursuing his thought). It was all rather 
sudden, wasn't it ? 

Pamela (preoccupied with her trunks). My hat ? 
I suppose it was what you might call " sudden." 

Greame. I cUdn't mean the hat. I meant the 
death of Mr. Towne. 

Pamela (blankly). Mr. Towne ? 

Greame. Your husband. 



THS riJRSDTT OF PAMELA. 11 

Pamela. Oh ! (Blankly.) Yes. 

{He stares at hey : enter the Cabiman witJi a fourth 
trunk. She takes her keys from her vanity bag ami 
points to the fourth trunk.) 

Would you mind opening- that one ? 

(Greame takes the keys and unlocks it. Instead of 
opening it he stares at her.) 

Nothing will jump out at you. 

Greame (raising the lid). But you know, whatever 
the custom is in the interior of Oregon^the custom. 
in the rest of the world is to — to take a rather differ- 
ent view of the departure of one's husband. 

Pamela (nodding politely). Oh ! I didn't know 
that. Thank you. You know (she burrows into 
the trunk.)~-we can go fishing, and we can go bathing. 
And we can go both ! (Sh^ takes out brush, comb 
and bath towel and carries them into the bath-house) 

Greame. Your married hfe couldn't have been 
very long. ' 

Pamela (absently, inside). What ? No. 

Greame. How long was it, may I ask ? ' 

Pamela (absently). Just the ordinary length: 
(She appears at the door.) You'll find it in the corner > 
wrapped in something dark. 

Greame. Your married life is wrapped in some- 
thing dark ? 

Pamela (laughing as she goes again to the trunk). 
Oh, my married life ! Oh, that lasted about five 
seconds. 

(He stares, astounded ; she doesn't notice.) 

Will you hunt in that corner ? (She hunts busily.) 

[He helps, preoccupied ; brings forth a diminutive 
bundle. ) 

Greame (suddenly). Your married life lasted only 
five seconds ? 



12 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

(She steals a glance at him.) ^ 

Only five seconds ! 

Pamela (after a moment, glibly). You see — 
after we were married — my husband — (confidentially) 
— ^he attempted to kiss me. Then the chandeHer 
fell down and killed him. (She rummages in the trunk.) 
I'm sure it's in this trunk ! 

Greame. Fell down and killed him — on the spot? 

Pamela (wide-eyed). It struck him on the bald 
spot — and went through. 

{He stares ; she nods, then laughs, pointing to the 
small bundle in his hand.) 

That isn't my bathing-suit ! Here ! 

{Enter the Cabman with two large hat-boxes. Pamela 
delves in the trunk.) 

Greame (incredulously). You buried your hus- 
band almost immediately after your wedding day ? 

Pamela (&e^s//y unrolling a bundle). No, / didn't 
bury him. I got some one else to bury him. 
I took the train for California. I was busy ! I was 
determined — not to be eternally in one piece and 
buttoned down the back ! {She shakes out a red and 
white bathing dress. The Cabman enters with two 
suit-cases and a small steel cash-box, to ivhich Greame 
points.) 

Greame. What's that, may I ask ? 

Pamela. My money. 

Greame. I hope you don't carry much cash in 

that fashion ? 

Pamela. No. (3nly about fifteen thousand dollars. 
Grea.aie {after staring at her, amused). From what 
you've told me about your living alone with your 
aunt all your life— (/f^ sits)— I gather she was a— a cul- 
tivated person, yet rather eccentric — I suppose from 
the very loneHness of a place so remote as Wallalup. 
Pamela {ivitli a shrug). Wallulup is seventeen 
miles from a railroad town ; and that railroad town 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 13 

is a hundred and fifty miles from anywhere. I should 
say my aunt was eccentric ! She never let me see 
any one of my own age. She never allowed me any 
books, except school books ; never a newspaper, or a 
magazine. I had a swimming pool, a dog, a horse ; 
ancl a rifle — when she didn't know I had it. We had 
a cook-chambermaid — he was a Chinaman. And a 
Scotchman looked after the horses. Some of my 
evenings I used to spend in their cabin, and the 
Scotchman "lused to let me read parts of his Bible, 
while he and the Chinaman played poker. Every- 
thing else was woods, and mountains, and sky. 

Greame {laughing). But you grew up very strong 
and healthy. 

Pamela. I grew up horrible, inside. My aunt 
was always seaing and talking with spirits. I hate 
spirits. And besides, my aunt wis such a fearful 
liar — much worse than I am. Whin I was eighteen 
I never received the least enligh enment from her 
about my being of age and having plenty of money of 
my o vvn. If I had known, when I was eighteen, that I 
was my own mistress — that I might go wherever it 
pleased me — [with feeling) if I had known that, 
then — [she smiles) then perhaps I never should have 
met you ! {Deeply, touch ing his arm.) That would 
have been a very great misfortune. 

Greame {-with a smile, and a sigh, drinking her in). 
You know, I have no income ; and I shall make an 

awful mess of earning my own living ; and I — I 

{He shrugs, to convey the rest of his meaning : that 
he is in no position to marry.) 

Pa iela {earnestly, ignoring what he says). You 
know, I never had any one to play with ! I'm so 
glad I never kaew then how much I never had as a 
child. When I'm with you, I do know — life seems 
all music and flowers, and freedom — and youth, when 
I'm with you. 

Greame. Music, flowers and {quizzically) — real, 
freedom ? 



14 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pa:\iela {jumping up). Delicious freedom ! {Hold- 
ing out the bathing dress). \A'oii]dn't my aunt ch©ke 
to see that ! 

Greame {paternally). You know, I'm in some 
danger of choking, too. 

Pamela. How do you mean ? 

Grea :e {with a twinkle). I'm trying to swallow a 
chandelier. 

Pamela. Chandelier ? 

Greai\ie. The chandelier that killed 3^our hus- 
band. You know, I want to get it down ; but it's 
just a little thick, if you don't mind. 

Pamela {after a moment). No, I don't mind — so 
long as you do get it down. 

Grea:\ie. How old was he — when you married 
him? 

Pamela {indifferently, trying to fasten the trunk). I 
don't know\ 

Greame. You don't know how old \^our husband 
was when j^ou married him ? 

Pamela. No ! I hadn't seen him for six years. 
{Pointing to the trunk.) Will you please ? 

Greame. You hadn't set eyes on him for six years, 
before the day you became his wife ? 

Pamela. How could I ? He lived in New York 
three thousand miles away. He had never been 
to Wallalup but once before. 

{He locks the trunk.) 

Do you see my idea ? If I get tired of fishing out 
there, I shall jump overboard. Thanks ! It's so 
agreeable to have 3'ou do for me all these things 
I could just as well do for myself. {She comes 
close to him, fondly, innocent and unabashed.) You've 
such a charming nature ! 

(He shakes his head chidingly : she is disturbed.) 

What's the matter ? 
Greame. Do you think that what you've said 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 15 

about not having seen your husband for six years 
before you married him is going to ease that chan- 
deher ? 

Paimela {jr owning). But what I said about not 
having seen him is true. It really is ! 

{She is disturbed, at his amused incredulousness.) 

Greame. Mrs. Towne, will you s't down ? 

{She complies ivith some anxiety. He shakes his head 
at her.) 

In all the wildest fiction you have ever read — ■ — 

Pamela. Fiction ? 

Greainie. Stories, novels — ^in the wildest 

Pamela. But I don't know an}/ fiction — -Linle ss 
the Bible ? 

Greame. • You seem able to manufacture it.! 
No chandelier ever fell down and killed a man be- 
cause he tried to kiss his newly- m.arried wife. Mrs. 
Towne, some one has just left here who has a cable- 
gram from San Francisco about a young woman with 
a blue ostrich feather. And that some one says 
your name is not Mrs. Towne. 

Pamela {thinking solely about him). What's the 
matter ? Don't you like me ? 

Greame. The gentleman's name is Peter Dodder. 

Pamela {sJie starts). Peter Dodder ? Who's he ? 
I don't know any Peter Dodder. 

Greame. He is a man who says that no woman 
has ever made a fool of him. 

{She looks aivay from him.) 

Mrs. Towne, you are not Mrs. Towne. 

{She only stares at him, as if hurt.) 

Isn't that true ? Aren't you going to answer ? 

Pamela {hurt, with raised eyebrows). Not if you 
don't like me. 

Greame. It isn't fair to appeal to my silly emotions 



16 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

when I am on the judgment seat. It looks as if j^u 
had committed a very considerable indiscretion. 

(She turns away from him.) 

Now please acknowledge the truth of what I am 
about to say — and save me from a nervous break- 
down. You are not ]\Irs. Towne ? You are not a 
widow ! Isn't that true ? 

Pamela [ajter a moment). I suppose so. 

Greame. Good ! You are not Mrs. Towne ; you 
are not a married woman ! No ; j^ou're a little girl 
— a mere child — and you've run away from your 
aunt. That's it, isn't it ? 

Pamela [hesitating, then looking tip at him). Is that 
the way you'd like it to be ? 

Greame. You m.ustn't ever tell me any fibs — 
not if you like me. But you are not a married 
woman ! Isn't that the truth ? 

Pamela (ajter hesitation, tmwillingly) . No. 

Greame [icitli disappointment.) Oh — ! Then 
you — 3^ou are a 

Pamela (with vexation). But I don't see what 
difference it makes ! I cant see why you ar.e having 
such a fit about it. 

Greame. Then — you did marry him ? 

Pamela. Yes. But it's all over now. 

Greame. " All over now ! " Isn't your husband 
alive ? 

Pamela. I suppose so. But he isn't here ! 

Greame. Alive, then ! And isn't he pursuing 
you ; hasn't he been cabling about you, this very 
day ; isn't the whole thing most appalling ; and yet 
you call it all over ? 

Pamela. But it isn't him I'm worrying about. 
It's the way you take on about it. I didn't want 
to be with him. I went the Christian Science way 
about it. You simply say " There is no husband ; 
there never was any husband." You ignore it ; and 
presently you forget it. And I /mz;^ "forgotten it ; 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 17 

and I am happy. And I want to go fishine^ — now 
— with yoic ! 

Grea:me (chiding her). Isn't this preposteroii:: ! 
Isn't this unbehevable ! 

Pamela (annoy -sd). Oh dear. 

Greame (he brings a chair and sits). Mrs. Towne. 

Pamela (vexatiously) . Oh, my name isn't Mrs. 
Towne ! 

Greame. I know it isn't, but it's Mrs. Something 
else ; and you are not merely a little girl ! Now 
come, tell me truly : did it last only five seconds 
after the ceremony ? 

Pamela. Yes. Then I ran away. 

Greame. But tell me — how — how in a matter 
which was bound to affect your whole life — 

Pamela (impatiently). It has affected my life 
most pleasantly. If I hadn't married him I shouldn't 
have met you. 

Greame. Oh, what a child you are ! Why 
didn't you deliberate ? Why didn't you think what 
you were doing ? 

Pamela. I did think what I was doing — I was 
getting away from Wallalup, getting away from my 
aunt — to whom I had been chained for six years. 
W^en he gave me the chance to get away, I didn't 
need to deliberate. It was he who had brought me 
out to her, after my father died. He left me with 
her, and from that time on, my only hght from the 
outside world was through his letters. It was 
suffocating me, it was killing me, to live with her. 
Then John Calvin put his finger into it. 

Greame. John Calvin ? 

Pamela. " The late eminent divine," she called 
him. He appeared to my aunt in the spirit form, 
and commanded her to marry me to some one. So 
she went at it, — by letter. 

Greame. Your future husband didn't even write 
direct to you ? 

Pamela. Not about that — not until after he had 



18 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

arranged it with her and she had arranged it with 
me. The day when I came downstairs and found a 
clergyman talking to him in the drawing-room, tfiat 
was the first time I had seen him for six years. 
Greame. "But you didn't love the man ! 
Pamela {impatiently). No one but the clergyman 
said anything about loving ! Then he said we were 
man and wife. 

Greame. And then your husband ? 

Pamela {disliking the word). Then my " husband " 
— ^as you call him, turned and gave me a cheque-book. 
He said I was a rich woman in my own right, and 
that I was to spend my own money, not his. 
(ThGughtjully.) And then 

Greame. And then ? 

Pamela {unwillingly). Then — the chandelier didn't 
fall down — but he did try to kiss me. I pushed 
him away^ — I didn't like that : — something in my 
heart went against that, as if I had rather die ! 
I ran upstairs. In a few minutes he burst into my 
room. {She rises.) He — he did kiss me. I shall 
hate him as long as I live ! I ran and dropped out of 
a window. I took my horse out of the stable. I rode 
fifty miles that day. H he had caught me up I 
would have killed him with the butt of my riding- 
whip. But he wasn't the rider to catch me up : — 
I was free ! Then {she smiles) I had a most agreeable 
time — shedding all those buttons from my back, and 
all those pink rubber plums. And them came the 
best thing of all — I met you ! 

Greame {gravely). Ancl I met you. 

Pamela {brightly). And now, I want to go fishing. 

Greame {with a grave smile). And we shall never 
•go fi.shing. {She demurs.) Never. 

Pamela. Why not ? 

Greame {with a ivave). You are this man's wife ; 
you are chained to him, by the law, by everything — 
until one of you dies. 

Pamela. I'm not. 1 belong to myself. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. VJ 

Greame. You belong to him. 

Pamela. I don't ! I won't ! I'm Pamela ; 
I'm Miss Balthorne. I shiU nave: be anything but 
Pamela Belthornc ! And I'm not going to sit hare 
and mope, with the sun shining and the sea glintin^ 
and the birds singing — ^md my lovely new bathing 
dress. I think you have a tendency to melancholy ! 

Greame (i^'ith pity for her). Who wouldn't have ! 

Pamela. Then let's go fishing. If you hooked a 
nice fish, you'd feel better ! 

Greame (it'isely). Not if I found it belonged to 
some one else — whom I couldn't help detesting ! 

(She sits on the table.) 

My dear, beautiful child, may I tell you why we two 
may never go fishing together ? 

Pamela. If you say it so sweetly as that, you 
may. Then we'll go. 

Greame. You don't seem to realize that it comes 
to this one most vital point : — your reputation. 

Pamela. My reputation ? Reputation for what ? 
Greame. Why, your — your — reputation. When a 
young woman leaves her husband in this informal 
manner, and evades his pursuit of her and penetrates 
to a foreign land, the very first question asked by the 
world is : — " Who is the other man ? " 

Pamela. Other man ? Peter Dodder ? 

(He laughs at her.) John Calvin ? Then who is the 
other man ? 

Greame. Just consider : — You run away from 
your husband, in circumstances which, if I hadn't 
spent some time in America, I shouldn't believe. A 
few weeks afterwards you and I arrive at Honolulu 
on the same steamer, after having been most obviously 
together and most patently pleased with each other 

for seven days. Now 

Pamela. Wasn't it a joyous seven days ! In all 
my life I never knew a week to vanish so quickly ! 
And yet it's as if I had known you for months and 



20 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

months. I never met any one I liked so much ! You 
know such a lot ! Your tastes are so line ! l^u 
arc such a revelation of what a man can be ! 

Greame. Then perhaps 3^ou'll allow me to say 
that, immediately you and I go out in a canoe, 
even with a fisherman, Mr. Peter Dodder will stand 
on the shore with a spy-glass, a magnifying glass 
and two pairs of spectacles, and he will say, " That 
is the other man ! " 

Pamela. You mean the fisherman ? But we 
won't take any fisherman ! 

Greame. I don't mean the fisherman. T mean : 
Mr. Dodder will say that I am the other man. 

Pamela. Oh ! But — but — you are another man, 
aren't you ? 

Greame. I said the other man. 
Pamela. Then goodness, the other man ! If j^ou 
are not an other man, and not tlie other man, it seems 
to indicate your not being a man at all: 

Greame (with a grave smile). That's precisely 
what I'm trying not to be. But I'm afraid you're 
the last person to help me in that direction. [He 

begins again.) Don't you see 

Famela (giving him a pusJi ivith her parasol). No, 
I don't see — anything. It sounds more like gram- 
mar than like common sense. How are you going to 
raise chickens, if you talk to them like that ? You 
are a man and you are the man — the man I want to go 
fishing with. With that nice little curl ! (She 
points to his forehead.) 

Greame (shaking his head). You talked about 
this curl on the steamer : — lots of people overheard 
you. I shall have to cut it off, now. 

Pamela. Oh, will you give it to me ? His wedding 
present to me was a locket and chain. If you'll give 
me your curl, I'll wear it in the locket 

Greame. No : I shall do nothing of the kind. 

(Her /ace falls : she moves away from him.) 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 21 

I am determined to make you see how your invita- 
tion to me to go out there in an open boat, while 
Peter Dodder is searching Honolulu for you, is an 
invitation. to me to help you damage your reputation. 

Pamela. Tell me when we've had our fishing. 
Peter Dodder will be here again, if we don't hurry. 

Greame. He will, and I am going to tell you now. 

(She steps on to- one of the trunks.) 

When you marry one man — when deliberately you 
appear with him and solemnly you subscribe with 
him to those binding covenants recited by the clergy- 
man out of his holy book 

Pamela (with a laugh, as she climbs upon a higher 
trunk) . How well you imitate him ! 

Greame. Then you promise things which people 
do not promise unless they intend to perform them. 

(She balances on the top of the luggage pile.) 

And when you refuse ; when you depart to the com- 
pany of another man 

Pamela. The other man ! 

Greame. Or even seem about to do so — then 
(he thumps the table) that is what, upon the instant, 
5^ou I6se for ever. 

Pamela. Oh ! (She tries to seem intelligent.) 
Now — now — what is it you say I lose ? 

Greame. Your reputation ! 

Pamela (wide-eyed). Why ? 

Greame (w'ith a helpless laugh). Good heaven — ^1 
Good — — 

■ Pamela (after a moment, earnestly). What did 
you say I promised to perform ? 

(He stares at her quizzically, appreciating the humour 
of a situation where he pities her unsophistication.) 

I didn't listen ; the clergyman had a woolly mole 
on his nose. What did I promise ? 

(He only shakes his head.) 



22 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

You must know, or you wouldn't have made tlfat 
lovely long speech about it. I can't stand curiosity. 
Tell me what I promised to do for the clergyman ! 

Greame {throwing up Jus hands). " Do for the 
clergyman ! " I'm talking to you about your 
husband, your marriage vow, and your fatuous 
attempt to ignore them. You are like an infant 
in its perambulator — it would throw away its ear, 
its nose, if it could get them off, precisely as you are 
now preparing to throw away — that which you can't 
possibly do without ! 

Pamela. Oh ! And please — just what is it I 
can't possibly do without ? 

Greame. I say ; your reputation ! 

Pamela (blankly). My reputation ? 

Greame (banging the table). Yes, your reputation. 

(She looks at him a moment, then suddenly she jumps 
down off the trunks and hurries to him.) 

Pamela (likewise hanging the table). Then for 
goodness sake, what is my reputation ! ! 

Greame (he draws a breath ; leans over to her with 
helpless irony). I don't know ! 

Pamela (with relief). Then let's go fishing. I'm 
not a bit angry with you. (She rings a hell on the 
table.) That's for some one to fetch 3^our bathing- 
suit. 

Greame (with regretful finality). My friend, from 
the top of heaven to the bottom of the sea, there is 
no place for you and me together. 

(Enter Janet. Pamela is about to give an order. 

But he firmly anticipates her.) 
I rang for tea. for two, please. 
Janet. Yes, sir. 

(Exit.) 

Pamela (angrily). Look here ; don't you want 
to go fishing with me ? 
Greame (with manly protestation). Jumping Jupi- 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 23 

ter, don't you suppose that selfish!}.' — selfishly — 
I do want to go with you ? 

Pamela (pleadingly). Come here. Please come 
here ? 

(He wont. She goes to him.) 

I'm extremely wise : — it comes from being so much 
alone in the wilderness. Now, there is only one way 
for two people to get along together ; that is for 
one to be selfish and the other to be generous. Fve 
been selfish all my life, until I met you. Let me be 
the generous one, now. (Her head is tilted up to him.) 
Please ! 

Greame (tempted to kiss her). No ! (ahvays amused 
and intrigued.) You cant be generous. Don't you 
know that ? 

Pamela. But I am generous ! And you are 
selfish, and you are determined to go fishing with 
me. (Touches him.) 

Greame (firmly). No. (He moves aivay.) No. 
When Mr. Peter Dodder returns here I shall tell him 
everything. 

Pamela (calmly, picking up her bathing-dress). 
You don't know anything to tell him, except that 
my name is not Mrs. Towne. 

Greame. I shall tell him that it is your duty to 
return to your husband — whom I intensely dislike. 

Pamela. Oh, I'm trying so hard to be angry with 
you — and I can't ! Perhaps you'll like me better in 
this. (Shows her bathing dress.) 

Greame. " Like you better "- ! 

(She is about to enter the bath-house, but she stops to 
look towards the entrance to the garden.) 

This is not the time for you to think of the water ! 

Pamela. Oh yes, it is. (Pointing.) I recognize 
that old gentleman ! That will be Peter ! And I 
don't like Peter ! 

(She jumps inside and shuts the door.) 



24 THE PURSUIT OF PAMEEA. 

Greame [to the door). Mrs. Towne, I tell you it's 
useless ! It is my duty to rescue you from ^our 
own preposterous 

Pamela {putting her head out of the door). How 
do you know it's your duty ? 

Greame. I recognize it as my duty because I 
don't want to do it. But I shall. 

Pamela (beckoning). Look here. (She puts her 
head close to him.) Don't you dare to do your 
duty ! 

(She slams Ihe door as Greame moves aivay from the 
bath-house, and enter hurriedly Peter Dodder, 
mopping his brow.) 

Peter (pointing to bath-house). Young man-^- 
young man (He gasps for breath). 

Greame (against his isjill, about to "do his duty."). 
Mr. Dodder : — - (He hesitates.) 

(Peter stops to polish his spectacles.) 

Mr. Dodder : — 

Peter. Young man, I may be forced to carry two 
pairs of spectacles, but I can still detect the shape 
of a woman at a very considerable distance. I 
saw the young hussy rush into that bath-house. 

Greame (annoyed). " Hussy? " 

Peter. The young vixen ! 

Greame. " Vixen ? " 

Peter. Mr. Greame, the subject of my cablegram 
from San Francisco this morning is the young ter- 
magant behind that door. 

Greame. " Termagant ! " Mr. Dodder, 3-our lan- 
guage doesn't describe any one I know. It puts 
me off, sir. 

Peter. What — you wish to make me think that 
door does not conceal your Mrs. Towne ? (Starts 
to lay hold of door ; Greame pulls him back.) Are 
you going to try to shield her from me ? 

Greame. Mr. Dodder. The lady is putting on 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 25 

her bathing dress. How can I shield her from 
you, when she can't leave there without your inter- 
cepting her, whoever she is ! 

{Enter Janet with tea-tray.) 

Peter. " Whoever she is " 

(Fie scans the tray,) 

Haven't you ordered tea for two—" whoever she 
is ? " 

Greame [until a shrug, forgoing his purpose of in- 
f orming Dodder about Pamela). Of course, Mr. 
Dodder — remembering that you used always to take 
tea at this hour. 

(The door of the bath-house opens and an arm, bare — • 
beckons to Janet, Dodder observes Janet go to 
the door and hold a whispered conversation which 
seems to concern Dodder.) 

Won't you sit down, sir ? (He places chair at table l. 
Dodder eyes him suspiciously ; the bath-house 
door closes. Janet stands undecidedly "with the tea- 
tray.) 

Peter. Some conspiracy has been set on foot. 

[He sits, li'ith a look at Janet, his back to the bath- 
house. Greame sits opposite.) 

Janet. I suppose I must do what I'm asked to do, 
Mr. Gream.e ! 

Peter. Eh ? What'-s this ? 

Greame (puzzled). I can only suggest that you 
bring the tea. 

Peter (over his shoulder). Young woman, do as 
you are told. 

Janet (she shrugs). Very well, sir. 

(The bath-house door opens, she jumps in ajtd slams 
the door behind her. Dodder starts.) 

Peter. Hah ! I knew it ! I knew it i But no 
two women are going to make a fool of me. 



26 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Gre a:\ie. But does your long solitary life amo»g 
the insects quite qualify you for what you are under- 
taking ? 

Peter. Young man, I know every trick of the 
female spider. They are now occupied in dissimu- 
lating that ostrich feather. 

Greame. What shall you try to persuade her to 
do, Mr. Dodder ? 

Peter. To return to her husband, at once. 

Greame. But if she refuses ? 

Peter. She cannot leave this island unless she 
leaves within the hour. The next steamer that 
arrives will bring her husband. (He puts his black- 
rimmed spectacles on the table.) 

Greame. Her husband will come on the next 
steamer ? (With disdain.) Why didn't he come on 
this steamer ? (With a sudden pleasant idea.) Per- 
haps he's delicate, or in precarious health, with the 
prospect of an early — demise ? 

Peter. No, sir. 

Greame. I suppose not ! (With sudden con- 
tempt.) Then why the devil doesn't he keep pace 
with her ? Is he too fat ? 

Peter. H'm — he's too mean to grow fat. Thin, 
pious, avaricious and uxorious. Married twice be- 
fore. (He puts on his gold-rimmed spectacles.) 

Greame. Then for Heaven's sake what age is 
he? 

Peter. That is not your affair. If you think 
you are going to figure in this, young man 

Greame. I don't, sir. 

(The bath-house door swings slowly open. Pamela 
dressed in Janet's clothes, backs out of the house 
from behind the open door). 

Peter (his near sight not detecting the change) 
Janet, I want you ! (He finds a pencil in his pocket 
begins to urite, with his nose close to his paper.) 

(Pamela turns to look at Greaime, holding the door.) 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 27 

Grea:^.ie {for Pamela's hensfit). I do not expect 
to figure in this because I am going away. I am 
going for a while to a remote spot in the interior of 
Japan — i place no woman can penetrate to. I leave 
within a few minutes. After Japan, then the wilder- 
ness of Mindanao ; and {firmly) — I shall never see 
Mrs. Towne again. 

(PameLx\ angrily slams the door.) 

Peter {turning to her). Janet I say ! Janet, go 
about your business and get me some milk and soda. 
And remember that I shall keep a note of everything. 
(He writes). 

(Enter the Porter, a Kanaka of 40, who stops and 
stares at her in amazement. She asks him a ques- 
tion. He points to the hotel. Exit Pamela, followed 
by the Porter, laughing. Dodder finishes his 
writing ; goes to bath-house door and knocks.) 

Peter. Young woman, I shall not leave this vicinity 
until you come forth. If you are counting on Mr. 
Greame to accompany you in your travels, he will in- 
form you to the contrary. {To Greame.) I trust 
you are prepared to do so ? 

Greame. I trust you are prepared to withdraw the 
epithets which you applied to her ? 

Peter. No, sir, I am not. {He sits at the table.) 

(Enter Pamela with soda and syphon on tray, as 
Greame goes and speaks to bath-house.) 

Greame {to the bath-house). Mrs. Towne, I am 
leaving for Japan. I bid you good-bye, and I am 
very glad to have met you. {Turns to her.) Good- 
bye ! (She eyes him angrily ; he returns and sits.) 

Peter. Good ! You are really leaving for Japan, 
then ? 

Greame. Yes. (Looks at his watch.) In five 
minutes. 

(Pamela angrily slams the tablecloth on to the table ; 



28 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

she meets the Porter entering, and drags him off 
with her.) 

Peter. Then I will ask you to read the cable- 
gram which I received this morning and which is'' 
the cause of my annoyance. (He hunts in his pockety 
fetching out his black-rimmed spectacles, which he lays 
on table.) 

[Enter the Porter l. with paste and large labels : 
" Yokohama." He pastes these on Pamela's trunks, 
as she returns, always angry at Greame.) 

Greame. Mr. Dodder, how far can you sec with 
your reading spectacles on ? 

Peter (his hand three inches from his face). At 
this distance, perfectly. 

Greame (indicating the black-rimmed spectacles). 

And how far can you recognize faces with these on ? 

Peter. At fully thirty feet. (Has an idea.) 

Hah ! (He finds the cablegram in the lining of his hat.) 

(Pamela steals the black-rimmed spectacles, and she 
hurries behind Dodder and conceals them in her 
dfess as Dodder unfolds the cablegram, and she 
reads it over his shoulder.) 

*' Obstinate, headstrong and entirely unsophisticated 



Pamela (behind him). Oh ! 

Peter. Janet ! Bring me half a glass of milk 
and fill the rest with soda. (Hands cablegram to 
Greame.) That describes her. 

[She brings a glass and a svphon : with malice afore- 
thought, she discharges the syphon into the glass 
■ Dodder holds, so that it splashes milk in his face.) 

Abomination ! Why don't j^ou be more careful ? 

(He takes off his gold-rimmed spectacles to dry his face, 
and he no sooner lays them down than she steals 
. them and conceals them in her dress. The Porter 
begins to take away her luggage.) 



THE rURSUIT OF PAMELA. 29 

Now, sir, what (1<^ you think of that ? (He begins to 
grope on the table for his spectacles.) 

Greame [referring to the cablegram). John Dodder 
is your brother ? 

Peter (as Pamela gets the tea-tray from the other 
table). John Dodder is my brother and the creature 
in the bath-house with the blue ostrich feather is his 
runaway wife. There is but one course she can 
properly take, Mr. Greame. 

Greame (nodding, as Pa:mela stands beticeen them, 
and he firmly meets her eye). That is true, Mr. Dodder. 
She must, on some sort of terms, immedia.tely return 
to her husband. 

(Pamela angrily bangs the tray and contents on the 
table and flounces up to her luggage, i^hile ) 

Peter (testily). Abomination — what's the matter 
with tJie girl ? Where are my spectacles ? (He 
hunts in pocket.) 

Both pairs of my spectacles ! 

Greame (for Pamela's benefit). Not to return to 
her husband would be madness ! 

Peter (suddenly suspicious). Young woman, this 
is a conspiracy. 

(She turns her back on him.) 

You are in league with that hussy in the bath-house. 
Give me my spectacles. (He rises and follows her ; 
she retreats, as he stumbles over the chairs and remains 
of the luggage.) So you evade me. You did steal 
my spectacles ! — so that I might not remember her 
face if she managed to slip me by. (He rushes to 
the bath-house, of which the key is outside.) We shall 
see to that ! (He locks the bath-house and takes key.) 
I've locked her in. I shall report you to your father, 
miss. 

(Exit.) 

(Greame and Pamela rush together.) 



30 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela {wretchedly). Oh, I thought you Hked me, 
and you want me to go back to liim ! It's the moet 
dreadful thing that has ever happened in the world ! 

Greame. But, my dear friend, you don't know 
what you are saying, 

Pamela. \A'hat have I done, that you should hate 
me so ! 

Greame. How can you say I hate you ? 

Pamela. I was going on with you to Mindanao. 
I was going to help you take care of the chickens ! 

Greame. Why hasn't any one ever taught you 
how impossible that would be ! It's madness to think 
you could do that. Do you think you could be 
happy, with the whole world barking at your heels ? 

Pamela [stamping). It is you who are mad, not I ! 
We have been happy ! We shall be happy ! Where 
do you plan to go, in Japan ? 

GreaiME {hesitating). Why ? Whv do vou ask 
that ? 

Pamela. I want to know. [Pleadijig.) You 
must tell me. 

Greame {after a moment firmly). No, that's what 
I mustn't. I won't tell you where I'm going, Pamela. 

{He sits against the table L.) 

Pamela. You shall not go to Japan on my 
steamer ! I have hired all the cabs, and you cant 
catch the steamer, unless I sa}' so. {With sudden 
tenderness, close to him.) And I do say so ! Oh, 
won't you come with me ? Weren't we happy 
together ? 

Greame {with suppressed feeling). We were too 
happy together. For your own sake, Pamela, my 
name must never be associated with yours again. 

Pamela {offering both her hands). You won't even 
say good-bye to me ? 

Greame {with a glanc: towards the hotel, embarrassed 
by her warmth). I don't dare to. You must go back 
to your husband. If you sail to Japan, instead of 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 31 

sailing home, then Mr. Dodder will find it out. He 
will pursue you ; your husband and the whole world 
will pursue you ; and there will be no one to protect 
you — no one but your husband. 

Pamela (softly, wretchedly). Not even you — — ? 

Greame. Oh, my child, I haven't the right — I 
haven't the money — and I haven't the cowardice ! 
Go. Go back to your husband — take the steamer to 
San Francisco. 

Pamelv\. Not though I die for it ! Oh, you are 
the only one I have ever liked in my life. And I 
can't understand you — I can't understand you ! 
I will find out where you are going in Japan ! I'll go 
there, too ! I'll make you like me ! 

Greame. No. I shall not let that happen. That 
would be too unwise. 

Pamela. It won't be unwise ! There's nothing 
wiser in the world than liking people. There's nothing 
in the world but that ! I i2!ill find you ! 

Greame. No. You mustn't find me. I shall 
see that you never do that. 

Pamela (stamping her foot, blazing). I ivill find 
you ! 

(Greajnie sits, with a look of more embarrassment than 
amusement.) 

[Impetuously she comes to "where he sits, puts her hand 
on his shoulders.) Oh, you dear, wonderful thing — 
life is all music, flowers, freedom, youth — when 
I'nTwith you. (Tearfully moving away.) You shall 
like me! (Angrily, _ erect.) Whether you wish it or 
not ! 

(Exit R.) 

Greame (zcith a sigh, nodding to himself). Very 
likely — very likely : — (nods again.)—-" whether I 
wish it or not " ! 



ACT II 

The grounds of an Inn at " Tsuboyama," Japan, 
four weeks later. It is late ajtcrnoon. ■ 

Paimela is sitting expectantly on a garden settee, her 
thoughts in the distance. A metal whistle is in her 
fingers. \jme is arranging the dinner table. Pamela 
heaves a huge sigh. 

Pamela. Ume San ! 

Ume. _Heh ! (She smiles and comes to Pamela.) 
Pamela. Don't you understand an}^ English, 
whatever ? 

Ume (smiling affirmatively). Heh ! 

Pamela (shrewdly). Is it raining, or is it snowing ? 

Ume (always smiling). Heh ! 

Paimela. Or do you fry them in butter ? 

Ume. Heh ! 

(Enter Haranobu.) 

Pamela. How well you understand ! I have 
arranged with Mr. Haranobu — 

(He hows and puts a menu on the table.) 

— that whenever I leave here, which I may very 
suddenly, I shall take you along with me. 

(He bows.) 

I think it would be so nice (she picks up her Japanese 
doll) to have some one more human (she compares 
the doll) to confide to. Some one like you, who 
couldn't understand a word I say, but who would 
be (comparing the doll) more sympathetic. 

32 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 33 

Ume. Heh ! 

Pamela. You know, I've been horribly lonely 
these four weeks ! Won't you sit down ? 

(Ume smiles, hut is puzzled.) 

Down ? (Pamela points.) Down ! 

(Ume giggles and jails on her hands and knees, her 
head to the ground, bucking her breath ; Pamela 
smiles.) 

You are so polite ! [She notices Ume's heels sticking 
out of her sandals). We can't be so polite in my 
country ; — ^some one would ticklg our feet. 
Ume. Heh ! 

(Haranobu, injho has been superintending the table, 
goes indoors ; Pamela raises Ume to her knees 
and pulls her nearer.) 

Pamela (with circumspection). Mr. Greame will 
be here in a few minutes. I came here because I 
found out that he planned to come here. I hired 
the whole inn. No one may put up at this inn with- 
out my permission. He came to Japan from Hono- 
lulu, on the steamer next after mine. He hasn't 
the least idea that I am here ! 

Ume. Heh ! 

Pamela. But if I keep every one out of here, 
but him — then perhaps he'll stop fussing about what 

he calls my (With sudden thought.) I wonder 

if you have a reputation ? 

Ume. Heh ! 

Pemela (vexatiously) . Then what is it ? 

Ume. Heh ! 

Pamela. I don't believe you have any reputation 
whatever. If you had, you wouldn't look so happy. 
(Sighs.) You know, his name is Alan — Alan Greame. 
And he is so handsome ! And he has such a sweet 
temper ! He's so good ! There isn't another man 
in the world like him ! (She commands Ume to con- 
firm this.) Heh ! 

D 



34 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Ume. Heh ! 

Pamela (in sudden angry reminiscence). I^t 
when I think of how he treated me at Honoluhi, I 
am angry enough with him to leave this place with- 
out stopping to look at him ! — angry enough to do 
precisely what I should do if I [looked around that 
corner and saw : — my "husband ! " Ugh ! 

{She rushes behind the settee, picks up a bronze gong 
and beats it violently, blowing her whistle. In- 
stantly Ume runs at top speed into the house. Com- 
motion and Japanese voices are heard within. Then 
enter a second maid, bringing Pamela's steel cash-box. 
Filter Hx\RANOBU, Ume, and three coolies, in great 
haste, wnth various articles of Pamela's luggage. \ 

Pamela (satisfied). Stop ! 

(Haranobu utters a word in Japanese. They all 
look to Pamela.) 

I am not going this time. 

(All bow.) 

But if I do wish to leave suddenly, I am very pleased 
to see how well you understand. 

(All bow.) 

Remember, when I baat this gong, every riksha in 
Tsuboyama becomes employed exclusively by me. 
All but three of them will start at once for the railroad 
station, empty. Two of the others will wait for my 
luggage which must be carried down to the side gate. 
Further orders by cable, from wherever I decide to 
go when I leave here. Thank you ! 

(They all bow.) 

Mr. Harpjiobu : — 

(Haranobu bows ; the others carry back the luggage.) 

Presently there will come the gentleman for whom 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 35 

I have ordered dinner. You will be sure not to refuse 
him a room, won't you ? 

(He hows.) 

You mustn't charge him anything ! 

[Enter Ume witli a telegram.) 

And you must give him everything he asks for. 

(Hehows. IJme hands th3 telegram to Haranobu, which 
he reads. Pamela sighs, sitting on the bench.) 

[To Ume.) I think you had better hght the lamp, 
now. 

(Haranobu speaks to Ume in Japanese.) 
Ume. Heh ! 
[It is now dusk. Haranobu hows to Pamela.) 

Haranobu. Rady prease excuse. To have tere- 
gram come, from Utsonomiya. Engrish ranguage. 

Pamela. In Enghsh ? For me ? 

Haranobu. For humble innkeeper. [Bows.) To 
say : [Reads.) " Is foreign rady at your hote' — name 
Pamera — 

(She rises.) 
Pamera Dodder." 

(She crosses fingers of both hands and shakes her head 
in denial.) 

To say : " Prease answer." 

(She repeats her denial.) 

To say : " Prease answer. John Dodder — Kadzu 
ra'way sutaishon." ' 

Pamela [annoyed). Kadzu ? That's very near 
here ! 
Haranobu. Rady not to know foreign rady 
''name : (Reads.) " Pafmera Dodder ? " 

(She shakes her head.) 

Rady prease excus?. 



36 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

{He hows ; goes into the house.) ^ 

(Ume lights the lamp over the table. Pamela sighs 
and goes to look out on the road. Suddenly she 
runs down to Ume.) 

Pamela (as Ume is about to go in.) Oh, I saw a 
man's hat ! I've seen his hat ! Oh, I feel as if I 
had swallowed it ! Stay here ! (With a change of 
mind.) — if you want to ! I said : " if you want to ! " 
(She pushes Ume along.) But you don't want to ! 
It's Mr. Greame ! Oh ! 

VUme goes in ; Pamela adjusts herself in an attitude 
of studied ease, her hack to where she expects Greame. 
It is now nearly dark, save for the lamp over the 
table. Enter Haranobu, followed by two coolies 
from the house. Enter a coolie, who carries a lantern ; 
then Peter Dodder, much fatigued. Haranobu 
and the two coolies bow low.) | 

Haranobu. Gentreman : good evening ! 

(Pamela catches her breath, in nervous expectancy 
of Greame. Dodder regards them through a pair 
of opera-glasses. He sweeps about until he sees 
a woman. He takes the lantern and motions the 
others to withdraw. They all obey.) 

Peter (raising his lantern over her head). Hah \ 
Pamela (jumping up in dismay). Oh ! 

(She runs to the gong ; she is about to sound the alarm 
for a hurried departiure ; hut suddenly she stops, 
contemplating him.) 

Peter. Young woman, no wonder you are para- 
lysed. I am Peter Dodder. You married my brother ; 
and it serves you right, audit serves him right, too : — 
John Dodder is not woman-proof. (Sinks on bench.) 
Young woman, you have had your usual effect on ^ 
man : — you have made me very tired. 

(Pamela studies him.) 
Pemela (thoughtfully). Arc you : — woman-proof ? 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 37 

Peter [surveying her through opera-glasses). No 
woman has ever made a fool of me. I traced you 
here simply by finding out the itinerary of a certain 
Mr. Alan Greame. who is doubtless already on the 
premises. I should not have come to this barbarous 
country merely for the sake of my brother. But 
you stole my spectacles — both pairs of my spectacles ! 
I left Honolulu too quickly to replace them ; and 
in Japan I find it impossible to replace them. But 
now I have fixed your face in my memory. I re- 
quest you to return my spectacles. My brother 
landed at Yokohama yesterday morning ; he may 
be here at any moment ! The end approaches. 

Pamela [thoughtfully). Oh. Now I begin to un- 
derstand you ! [She points to the forest). She must 
have stolen them before you had a chance to fix 
her face in your memory/. 

Peter. What ? Who must have stolen them ? 

Pamela [imiocently, pointing into the forest). Why, 
Pamela must have stolen them. 

V^T-ER [chiding). Now, now — Mrs. Dodder ! Mrs. 
Dodder— ! 

Pamela [coolly pointing to herself). Mrs. Peach. 

Peter. Mrs. Dodder—! Tut-tut ! 

Pamela. Peach ! Why haven't you arrived 
sooner ? Don't you know it may be too late ? [She 
picks up the lantern.) 

Peter. Eh ? What's this ? 

Pamela [vibrating). Suppose she takes alarm 
before we capture her ? Why do you stop to talk 
about your spectacles ! 

Peter [taking up his opera-glasses). Now, now, 
Mrs. Dodder— 

Pamela [snatching the opera-glasses from him). 
Peach ! 

[He reaches for opera-glasses, and she pulls him hy 
the wrist to his feet, dragging him with her.) 

Quick ! Come with me ! 



38 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Peter (undecided and unwilling). What's this ? 
What's this? I'm too tired; I'm too — — • 

Pamela. Follow me ! (She gives him her whistle.) 
Keep blowing your whistle and I shall know where 
you are ! Follow me ! 

(He tries to hold her back.) 

Peter (as she drags him). I decline ! I suspect 
you ! Give me back my glass ; give me back my 

[She stops, to point into the dark forest.) 

Pamela. She shall disgorge your spectacles \ 
Follow ! 

Peter. Not into that black wilderness with any 
woman ! 

[She disappears into the j or est.) 

Mrs. Dodder ! Mrs. Peach ! 

Peter (following her). I say I shall stay where I 
am ! I say I shall stay — not so fast ! (His voice 
begins to diminish.) Mrs. Peach ! Mrs. Peach, your 
light has gone out ! Mrs. Peach — I'm going back ! 

(Whistle.) I'm (Blows his whistle.) Hello—! Hello ! 

(Whistle.) Hello—! 

{The whistle continues to he faintly heard in the dis- 
tance. The Second Maid brings a soup tureen 
to the table. Ume enters and begins to light more 
lamps. Enter, carrying a suit-case, and in a bad 
humour, Alan Greame. Following him unhos- 
pitably, Haranobu then comes in front of him.) 

H.aranobu (shaking his head). Gentreman prease 
excuse 

Greame (hungry and tired). Go to the devil ! 

Hanarobu. Gentreman prease excuse — to stop 
in my bote' not possibu'. 

Greame (dropping suit-case). I'm hanged if I'll 
sleep out there in an aboriginal hut ! 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 39 

Haranobu. Gentreman prease excuse 

Greame. I tell you I cabled you, four weeks ago, 
from Honolulu ! You cabled back that I could have 
the whole place to myself. Now 3/ou tell me to get 
out, because you've let your whole confounded 
premises to a woman ! 

(Haranobu tries to find words ; Pamela appears at 
hack. Then hides behind a tree.) 

Haranobu. Gentreman prease go away ! 
Greame. I won't budge ! (He sits wearily on 
the settee.) 

(Haranobu hesitates ; then, with a purpose, goes into 
house.) 

I wonder if there's a decent hotel in the world where- 

a man can go, nowadays, and not find it turned 

upside down by some screeching American female I 

Pamela (for his benefit, imitating a cuckoo). Oo-oo ! 

(She dodges back behind the tree ; Ume giggles.) 

Greame (over his shoulder). Shut up ! (To Ume.) 
I haven't eaten anything for nine hours. 

(She giggles.) 

Do you want me to eat you ? No use to smile at 
me. (With a shrug, thoughtfully.) No use for any 
woman too, now. 

Pamela. Oo-oo ! 

Greame (exasperated, turning about). Shut up ! 
And I came here for solitude, before I go on to Min- 
danao, to become a " hen-merchant ! " (With a 
sigh.) " Music, flowers, freedom — youth ! " — (zmth 
bathos) and eggs ! 

Pamela. Oo-oo ! 

Greame (starting up). H that's a cuckoo, why 
don't you wring its damned neck ! 

(Ume giggles.) 

(He calms himself and smiles.) And then broil it 



40 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

nicely on some toast, eh? (He puts his weary ^feet 
on the settee. Pamela comes softly down and beckons 
Ume to her ; she gives Greame's suit-case to Ume, 
who puts it under the table, as Pamela steals down 
behind him. He sighs.) I could eat an ostrich — ! 

Pamela (demurely). Dinner's ready ! 

Greame (bounding up). Good Heaven — Mrs. 
Towne ! 

Pamela (instantly correcting him). Peach ! (With 
a look about, ivhispering.) Mrs. Peach. 

Greame. Good Heaven, Mrs. Towne-Peach — ! 
What a coincidence ! What a coincidence ! 

(She nods.) 

It's unbelievable ! I came from Honolulu on the 
same steamer with Mr. Peter Dodder. I thought 
he'd have found you by now. (He hears Peter^s 
whistle and looks into the forest.) Who was it came 
up the hill ahead of me in a ricksha ? 

[Enter Haranobu and two coolies, their eyes on Greame.) 

.' Pamela. Oh, that man's quite harmless. 

Greame (as Haranobu and coolies approach him, 
as if with hostile purpose.) Harmless ? Somebody 
came here and went on — into that wilderness. [He 
is satisfied.) What a marvellous coincidence this is ! 

(Haranobu sends Ume in.) 

Coincidence ! Who's going to believe it was a coinci- 
dence ? No one ! There isn't another soul in the inn. 
I can't ' stay here ! (He discovers the attitude 
of the Japanese.) That is, I won't stay here unless 
there's a movement to eject me. Then I'll stay 
here for ever. 

jii^iThe- Japanese start to close in on him.) 

Pamela. Stop ! Mr. Greame is all right. He's 
my guest, Mr. Haranobu ! 

Haranobu. Oh ! Ah ! (They all bow.) Gentre- 
man prease excuse ! Hah ! 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 41 

[They smilingly withdraw. Pamela has thrown a 
beautiful embroidered shawl over her shoulders ; she 
parades up and down in it, for the effect on him.) 

Pamela. Dinner's ready ! 

Greame (admiring her, with a sigh). Dinner ! 
I hope you will enjoy your dinner. How often I 
have thought of you these last four weeks ! Twice, 
while I have been walking in the road, trying to 
bring back the sound of your voice, I've nearly been 
run over. And I (Suddenly.) No, I must go I 

(He turns to look for his suit-case ; she takes up another 
shawl and parades ; he cannot keep his eyes off her. ) 

Pamela. Dinner's ready. 

Greame. Dinner ! There are only three words 
in the English language — " Woman " — " home "—and 
"dinner!" Woman, which means home. Home, 
which means woman. And dinner— which means 
dinner ! 

Pamela. Dinner doesn't mean anything, unless 
there's a man to help eat it. You needn't stay for 
me : stay for dinner ! 

Greame (summoning strength of will). No ! I 
tried for seven days to persuade Peter Dodder that 
I knew nothing of your whereabouts. 

Pamela. You were so noble, not to tell him. 

(She points towards where Peter is.) 

Greame (blankly). Him? 

Pamela (quickly). I mean (she points in an 
opposite direction) Peter Dodder, at Honolulu. 

Greame (severely, as she sits on the bench). I fully 

intended, when you ran into that bath-house (He 

stops, with a smile which breaks into laughter, then 
ends in a sigh.) I've spent the dullest four weeks 
of my life ! I couldn't help being anxious about 
such an unsophisticated child as you are. 

Pamela. I'm not an unsophisticated child ! 



42 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Greame. What adventures did you have — on the 
steamer ? • 

Pamela. I met a Frenchman. 

Greame. You met a Frenchman ? A French- 
man ? What confounded reason did a Frenchman 
have for leaving Paris ? (He leans over the hack 
of the settee to look into her eyes.)' What attitude did 
the miserable frog take to you ? 

Pamela. An attitude like yours, novv. .. 

Greame. Impertinent dog! What insidious ad- 
vances did the creature make to you ? 

Pamela. I don't know. We didn't speak each 
other's languages. We spent hours together. I 
pretended that he was you. [Her head goes hack 
to look up to him : she sighs and smiles.) But he 
wasn't— ! 

Greame (he is tempted to kiss her, hut he masters 
himself). Where's my suit-case! (He looks q,hout 
for it.) 

[She takes up a third silk shawl and parades.) 

Pamela. Dinner's ready f 

Greame. Not for me ! (With a shrug, looking 
after her.) Dinner will never be ready for me \ 
(She turns towards him, and with a sudden impulse he 
goes to meet her.) Do you know what a prig is ? 

Pamela. No. 

Greame. You never will know ! I am walking 
on a tight-rope. If I fall on the one side, I am a 
prig ; if I fall on the other, I'm a cad ; and I can 
sniff that dinner like a beggar in the Strand ! 

Pamela (puzzled). What's the matter ? You 
are so complicated ! (Looks at the dinner table.) \yhen 
you see what you want, why don't you take it ? 

Greame (solemnly, more and more under the spell 
of her.) Are you aware that only an enemy would 
tell me that ? 

Pamela (putting her hand on his arm). Enemy? 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 43 

{Warmly.) Biit I want to be the most gentle, patient, 
willing friend you ever had ! 

Greame (on the verge of taking her in his arms, he 
suddenly masters himself). Then I walk my rope ! 
(He looks about for his suit-case. Pamela quietly 
seats herself at the table, where he pauses to watch her, 
while Ume brings hot soup plates. Then he tries to 
summon imill enough to steal away, abandoning his 
suit- case.) 

Pamela (reading the menu). " Cream tomato 
soup." 

Greame (stopping with pangs). Cream tomatO' 
soup ! Pamela — and cream tomato soup — ! 

(She lifts tureen cover and rattles it against tureen, 

listening for the effect on him.) 
Oh! 

Pamela. " With nice crunchy croutons ! " 

Greame. With nice crunchy croutons— ! 

Pamela. " Grilled mountain trout, with sauce — • 
sauce — p-i-q-u ' ' 

Greame. Sauce piquante ! Sauce piquante ! I 

could get roaring drunk on sauce piquante ! I- 

(V exatiously .) Who took my suit-case ! Who ran off 
with my suit-case ! 

Pamela (humming happily). It's here ! 

(Ume giggles, and he follows her look to under the table. 
He pulls away the chair opposite Pamela, in order 
to draw out his suit-case ; but she rises with a plate 
of soup and puts it in front of him, and pushes him 
down into the chair. He sniffs the soup and feebly 
surrenders. Pamela resumes humming. He eats 
ravenously.) 

Pamela (after a few moments). Every day we shall 
find something interesting to do in this place. Out 
in that forest there are hundreds of sacred monkeys. 

(Dodder's whistle is heard in the distance.) 

Hundreds of sacred monkeys— ! 



44 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

(The whistle is heard again, fainter.) 

Greame. Curious bird. (Ume, in attendance, 
giggles.) 

Pamela. And, three months from now, I've heard 
of such a warm spot in the Inland Sea ! — where we 
can go fishing. 

(Greame interrupts his eating.) 

Greame. Do you dream that I shall stay her^ 
even long enough to finish this dinner ? Please 
consider me here as the guest of your husband — 
only long enough to obtain sufficient provisions to 
carry me to the next port. Common humanity 
allows me that. 

Pamela (invitingly). But you will stay for the 
sweet — ? 

Greame. " Stay for the sweet " ! No, Mrs. 
Peach ! 

Pamela (referring to the menu). You won't stay 
for a nice, white, fluffy thing with a peach in it ? 

Gre/:ME (shaking his head, despairing of her). 
" Nice, white, fluffy thing ! " You know, there are 
reasons why I hope you won't say things like that 
^o a beastly Frenchman, Mrs. Peach ! 

Pamela (wide-eyed). Why ? 

(Ume brings the fish course.) 

Greame. I am a literal-minded Enghshman, but 
there are some men who 

Pamela (puzzled). Things like what—? 

Greame (sits hack. Helplessly). I wonder what 
will happen to you — ! 

Pamela. So long as you stay here, nothing can 
happen to me. Can it, Ume ? 

Ume (nodding). Heh ! 

Pamela. She says "yes." She means "no." 

Greame (to Pamela, with a glance to Ume). You 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 45 

take about as much for granted about me as a 
woman can, don't you ? 

Ume {taking the question to herself). Oh, no ! 

Greame. She says " no." She means " yes." 

Pamela. I'm not so sure I take so much for 
granted. Sometimes I think you're a bit of a wet 
match. 

Greame (with a breath). " Bit of a wet match ! " — 
*' Bit of a wet match ! " — {His eyes falls on the 
Japanese doll, which Ume has left near at hand.) 

Pamela {seeing the fish sauce). Sauce piquante ! 

Greame. " Sauce piquante "—I should say so \ 

" Bit of a " {He picks up the doll and shows it to her.) 

Mrs. Peach, we are not dining alone. {He puts the 
doll on the table, facing them both.) Please consider 
this as your maiden aunt. You must speak and act 
with all the restraint you would use if your maiden 
aunt were present. 

Pamela {rises). Very well ! {^^he covers the doll's 
head with a paper napkin.) Dried up old party \ 
{She uncovers the doll to speak to it.) You always 
told me that wine was nasty medicine. I'm going 
to see about that ! {She covers doll and pours herself 
a full tumbler of sherry from, the decanter, starts to 
drink the sherry.) 

{He seizes the decanter.) 

Ohl 

{He pours himself a glass and tastes it.) 

How nice ! 

Greame {warningly). I say— this is sherry ! 

{She drinks deeply). 

This is sherry ! 

Pamela {to the doll, lifting the napkin). Old tabby 
cat ! {She drinks on.) 

Greame. Are you going to quench your thirst 
with sherry ? I say, water is the thing for thirst ! 



46 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

{She drinks on.) I say, water (He reaches for 

caraffe and offers it to her.) • 

Pamela. Thanks. This will do quite as well. 
(She tosses off the last of it, and reaches for the decanter.) 
1 had a run in the woods, and I 

(He and she lay hold of the decanter at the same tiine, 
and neither will let go. She is surprised. Her 
determination makes a deadlock, the decanter between 
them.) 

Greame (severely). Do 3-ou know what this 
decanter contains ? 

Pamela. I want it. 

Greame. This decanter contains : — Experience. 

Pamela. I want it ! 

Greame. Then how much experience do you 
insist upon having ? 

Pamela (stoutly). Just as much as I want ! 

Greame. Then — (He looks up to sky, relinquishing 
Ms hold.) — Heaven itself can't stop her ! (He looks 
at her hopelessly.) 

Pamela. You see, (she pours herself another 
Imnbler of sherry) — when your decision is the same as 
mine, then it saves you the trouble of changing your 
decision. 

Greame (in half-humorous despair, snatching the 
napkin off the doll). Look here, (to the doll.) Heaven 
has discovered that this child can learn nothing except 
by bitter experience. 

Pamela. But I love experience ! (She drinks.) 

Greame. Very well. I tried to tell her a few 
things at Honolulu ; but they didn't penetrate to 
her understanding. 

{She puts down her tumbler, with sigh of satisfaction.) 

Very well : better that she get her experience through 
me than through some accursed Frenchman ! But 
T want to know what's to become of we in the pro- 
cess ? What does Heaven think I am ? 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 47 

Pamela. Oh, she doesn't know what you're 
talking about. [To the doll.) Old frowzle. Old 
third party ! {She Covers the doll's head, and attacks 
her fish.) 

Greame (after gazing at her). Haven't 3'ou the 
faintest idea of what I- -what I tried to explain to 
you at Honolulu ? 

Pamela (comfortably smiles). No ; but it doesn't 
matter. (She eats.) 

Greame. " Doesn't matter ! " — Oh, very well — 
(ironically) nothing matters. Put the gunpowder 
in the oven ! (He falls to.) 

Pamela (after a mom.ent). You see, whenever you 
say to me something I don't understand, I always 
say to myself : " Does it mean that he likes me ; or 
does it mean that he doesn't like me ? " And if I 
decide that it means that you do like me, then it 
doesn't matter what else it means. And if I decide 
that it means that you don't like me, then I don't 
want to know what else it means ! And that's quite 
all that's necessary for any woman to know. 

Greame (to the doll). " Woman " — she thinks she's 
a woman ! (To Pamela.) It isn't a question of 
me : it is a question of some other man — some other 
man, in your future, at some time and place where 
I shall not be there to knock him down ! 

(Ume brings the entree.) 

Pamela (calmly shaking her head). I don't think 
you are very clever. One-hsli of everything you 
say is to show me why you ought always to be with 
me ; and the other half is to show me why you ought 
to go away. You know, I have something to say to 
you that reallv is serious. Were you educated at 
Eton? 

Greame (after some thought). That is a matter of 
opinion. 

Pamela (serving the entree). I asked the British 
Consur about poultry farming in Mindanao, and he 



48 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

said you must have been educated at Eton. You 
couldn't make a living by raising chickens in 
Mindanao ! A hen would know that ! 'Wouldn't 
it, Ume ? 
Ume. Heh ! 

(They eat in silence for a moment, Pamela thoughtful.) 

Pamela. Why — (embarrassed) why couldn't you 
take a lot of my money and start in something big ? 
We could be partners. Let's plan ! We might go 
to Alaska ; we might hunt for gold, just you and I 
together, camping in the wilderness ! 

(He looks at her with a mixture of emotions ; then 
shakes his head.) 

Greame (suddenly rising). I'm going to Mindanao 
to-night. 

Pamela (wretchedly). Oh — ! Have I offended 
you ? (She rises.) Don't you like me ? 

Greame (he dramas a deep breath). How can you 
ask me that ! 

(Angrily she goes and pushes him down into his chair, 
into which he sinks with diminishing resistance ; 
she returns to her place, and on the way she collides 
rather awkwardly zn'ith her chair, which surprises 
her. She passes her hand over her brow, questioningly . 
She sits and again smooths her brow, silently watched 
by him. She looks to the wine and thoughtfully takes 
a sip of it. She smiles, rather foolishly. He puts 
the glass beyond her reach.) 

Greame (gravely). Do you think that all the men 
you meet will be like me ? 
■ Pamela (with a mild hiccough). No. 

Greame. Some day — when you have forgotten 
nie 

Pamela (smiling). Silly ! I could draw your 
picture in the dark — with that little — (She is inclined 
to giggle) — that little curl on your forehead ! 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 49 

Greame. What do you know about life ? How 
can you prophesy what you'll do ? Some day you'll 
meet some other man, when / have quite gone out 
of your ken ; some other man for whom you will 
feel that you can't get on without him, and who 
ivont be willing to get along without you. You will 
still be another man's wife. 

(She shows amusement.) 

But this man won't stop for that. This man will 
take you in his arms. This man will kiss you. I 
say : he will kiss you ! 

[She laughs.) 

And when the chandelier falls down, it won't be on 
him. 

Pamela [she laughs at him). But he won't want 
to kiss me ! Don't you know why ? 

Greame. He will kiss you ! (She cannot stop 
laughing.) 

Pamela. No, he won't kiss me ! Simply because 
the kind of man / should like wouldn't be an old 
man ! 

Greame (aghast, to Ume). Do you get that ? 
-Because he wouldn't be an " old man ! " Young 
men don't go in for that sort of thing ! That is the 
conclusion of (he points to the doll) a maiden aunt of 
forty- four ! (He leans hack helplessly.) 

(Pamela keeps on laughing, pointing at him. Her 
abandon increases. Ume joins in. Greame puts 
the decanter under the table, half smiling at her. 
Peter Dodder's ivhistle is heard in the dim dis- 
tance. It sets both women off in highest merriment. 
Again the whistle.) 

Curious bird — ! 

Pamela (with a burst). Bird — ! (She tries for 
control). I — I don't know why I'm so silly ! I — 
(Again the whistle ; she breaks out again, but pulls 
herself up.) — I'm sorry ! 



50 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

{Her hard goes out unsteadily mid knocks over the 
tumbler, in ivhich sotne wine has been retained ;^shc 
checks herself at once, ashamed and wondering. 
Ume sees the zcine stains and runs into the house. 
Pamela appeals to hirn contritely.) ^ 

I — I'm dreadfully sorry. [She leans her head on 
her hands, her voice diminishing.) Dreadfully sorry 
about something — ! {She shuts her eyes.) 

Greame. {taking up the doll, ominously). Say 
good-bye to your aunt then. 

Pamela {with a sigh, dreamily, not looking). Good- 
bye, aunt ! I don't care if I never see you again ! 

{Sh? sm'les iipon him faintly as h'^. hides the doll.) 

I don't care what happens — ! 

Greame (after a moment). You don't care what 
happens — ? 

Pamela. No ! One only floats in space. The 
whole world only floats in space. One never knows 
to where — why should one care ? {Distantly.) Not 
when one is alone with you. 

Greame {nodding). All alone in a wilderness, six 
thousand miles from anywhere. And this is only 
the eighth da}^ we've spent together. 

Pamela. All alone with you ! Music — flowers. — 
freedom — youth ! I was only sixteen when those 
words first floated into my head : — perhaps I shall 
never say anything wiser — ? {With a sigh, dropping 
o^e hand towards him on the table.) How 3^ou float — ! 

Greame (softly). Wherever I float, wherever 
1 drift, I shall never see any one so lovely as 3^ou, 
Pamela. 

Pamela. You — you like me ? 

Greame. Yes. And you ask me to itad you into 
the world — out of your garden of illusionment — into 
the world. 

Pamela. Into the world, with you — ? 

Greame. Into the world of experience. Ex- 
perience is always dear — ahvays dear. A_nd the 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 51 

memory — ^the mam/jry of this night, Pamela, (omin- 
ously) so long, as you Hve 

Pamela [dreamily smiling). Always dear — the 
memory of this night — always dear ! Go on — ! 

GreAjME. This night, when I tried to say how 
beautiful you are. 

Pamela (her head swimming) . Go on — ! 

Greame. Such sweet symmetry in every line of 
you ! Such warmth, such colour, such a meaning 
in your lips ! There's nothing in spun gold like the 
gleam of your hair ! Your eyes are like the dee p 
blue sea beneath the glory of the dawn ! 

Pamela. How^ sublime you are ! 

Greame. And you've no more shame than a 
rosebud has ! And you've all the splendour, all the 
wonder, all the mystery that the rosebud has. You 
are the argument unanswerable ! 

Pamela. Go on ! (Wifli increased breathing.) 
Why — wh}^ do you seem so far — so far away from 
me — ! 

Greame (he rises). What distance would not seem 
too far ? (Slowly he comes to her side of the table.) 
" Music — flowers — freedom — youth ! " You are one 
in all of these ! (His hand goes to the back of her 
chair.) Oh, I wonder — (He has a moment of doubt 
in himself.) — I wonder how far we two shall float 
to-night — ! 

(She rises, and he is close behind her. Her balance 
causes her to sway and put her hand to the table — 
then to sway back. It brings her against his bosom, 
his arm supporting, but not enclosing, her : for a 
moment they are still.) 

(Warmly.) How far we shall drift to-night — ! 
Pamela (with a great breath). Oh, let it be to the 
farthest — farthest end of things — ! 

(Her head goes back on his shoulder, her eyes close ; 
his arms lightly enclose her, ani he clasps her hands 
in his. Then her eyes close, and she half moans.) 



52 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Oh, why don't you kiss me — kiss me — kiss me ! 

{He quickly folds her close and kisses her. For a 
moment they are motionless. Then, with sudden 
realization, he exclaims.) 

Greame. No ! (He releases her.) You're only a 
child — a child ! 

(She sivays against the table and sees him go to the 
opposite side of it.) 

Pamela (nonplussed) . Alan — ? What is it ? 

Greame (painfully). It was the wine. Very 
likely it was only the wine. But it (She starts .)—\\2i?, 
what I was trying to tell you, at Honolulu. And 
it was (He takes a big breath.) — it was more than Fate 
had a right to ask of me. You've had the experience, 
Pamela, for which some other man might have made 
you pay — too much. 

Pamela (the shock not yet fully home). Alan — ? 
(She takes a step towards him.) 

Greame. You are only a child, and you are 
another man's wife : — the wife of a man I have never 
even seen. And I do not (He suddenly realizes that 
he is about to tell a lie.) — I do not love you. (Des- 
perately.) I am going, now. I shall never see you 
again, I suppose — God help me ! (He picks up hat.) 

Pamela.. Oh — ! (She sinks and bows her head on the 
table.) 

Greame. Ah, I didn't want to be either a prig 
or a cad ; and now I feel I'm both ! But you must 
go back to your husband, Pamela. If you go the 
other way 

(She looks tip at him.) 

Ugh, what a prig I sound ! 

Pamela (coldly, tonelessly). Yes. 

Greame (wretchedly). When you consider your 
position, your inexperience, you think that ? 

Pamela (rising). Yes. (Her eyes go to the over- 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 53 

turned glass ; she picks it up). What do yoii drink : — 
milk and water — ? 

Greame. Must you say that — ? 

Pamela. On the ship it wasn't the wine that made 
me go up and speak to you first. It wasn't the wine 
that made me leave my big hotel at Honolulu, and 
made me hunt you up at your little one : — because I — 
(Falters.) — because I was lonely, for you. And here : I 
found out all your plans ; I hired this inn, to have you 
to myself and meet 5/our notions of what you call my 
— reputation — ! And just now : — that wasn't wine — ! 
{She chokes.) It was— it was something that hurts me 
— down at the bottom of my heart — ! {She struggles 
with tears.) 

Greame. Oh, if you but knew — ! 

{She masters herselt.) 
If you but knew — ! 

Pamela {flaming). I do know ! Everything, 
now — everything ! Everything my mother knew ! 

Everything that an^^ woman ever knew ! And I 

{She stops for control.) 

Greame. And now you hate me ? 

Pamela {she blazes). Hate? Anger — ? Don't 
dare'to think I'm angry with you. Give me something 
big enough, strong enough, alive enough to be angry 
with ! {She catches her breath ! turns away.) Oh, 
you've taken something from me — something I shall 
never, never have again ! {She sinks to chair, sobbing.) 

Greame. Oh, Heaven, I can't stand that from 
you. Pamela — Pamela, will you go with me ? 

Pamela {at once to her feet). Go with you ! Go 
dow^n alone to Mindanao, and breed chickens : your 
heart will be in that ! {Clasps hands.) Mr. Har- 
anobu ! It wasn't for you to be the coward ! 

{Enter Heranobu.) 
Greame. Oh, my child, if that's the making of a 
hero, you'll find the world is full of them. It wasn't 
for me to be the cad I 



54 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA, 

(Dodder's whistle is heard, near at hand.) 

Pamela (she runs and beats th3 gong.) Mr. Haran- 
obu ; I am going, now ! 

(Haranobu calls out, and there is the same commotion 
as before over the removal of her luggage.) 

Peter (near at hand). Mrs. Peach ! 
. Greame (to Pamela). Mr. Dodder ! Your chance 
to turn back to your husband, Pamela ! 

Pamela. You shall see how I turn back ! (She 
indicates to Haranobu the approaching Peter.) 
Put that man in a ricksha, take him to the railway 
station. He shall find Pamela ! 

(She starts to go, ignoring Greame.) 

Greame. Pamela ! Some day, somewhere, I 
shall see you again. Perhaps I shall be alive enough 
then. Perhaps strong enough, even big enough, 
for you to be angry with. 

Pamela (with a shrug). I have no doubt you'll be 
most charming, Mr. Greame — to your chickens. 
Sayonara. 

(She starts to go : again he interceps her). 

Greame. Pamela — ! 

Pamela. Oh, I tell you we shall never meet again ! 
[She bows to the assembled Japanese.) Sayonara ! 

(Without a look at Greame, Pamela departs, followed 

by Ume.) 
Sayonara ! 
The Japanese. Sayonara ! 

(All the Japanese follow to see her off. Greame comes 
slowly down and looks at the deserted dinner table.) 

Greame. (Wretchedly) — Sayonara — ! 



ACT III 

Pamela's House at Hong Kong, six weeks later. 

Pamela and Peter Dodder are in evening dress. 
Pamela, extremely bored, sits with a hook in her 
lap, and a page of manuscript in her hand. Peter, 
now transformed, stands, holding other pages of 
his manuscript, languishing over the beauty of her 
hair. As she ivearily reads, a carnation drops 
from her fingers. . He gropes for it on his hands 
and knees, shortsightedly. He secures it as enter 
Fah-ni, with a tray of cooling drinks. Exit Fah-ni. 
Peter has a moment of ecstatic contemplation of 
Pamela, then awakes to hand her another page. 

Pamela. Fve read that one. 

Peter (humbly). My dear Mrs. Peach — I'm so 
sorry ! {He hands her another page.) 

Pamela (reads). 
''To think that I had waited fifty years to reach 

This state of thraldom to a Mrs. Peach ! 

For what all other women failed to teach, 

Fve learned in six short weeks — from Mrs. Peach ! '* 

(He is faintly pleased ; she shows only ennui ; he 
offers her another page, wJdch she ignores.) 

Let me see that letter from your brother. 

(He hands her the rest of the pages, and she lets them 
drop on the floor, as he fetches the letter.) 

How are you goinp: to answer this ? 

Peter. If you really think the state of my health 
55 



56 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

is still too precarious for me to go to his hotel, I 
suppose I must write— ? • 

Pamela (accustomed to command him). Write. 

(He sits at desk.) 
" Dear John ! " 

(He looks up inquiringly.) 

{She, vexatiously.) " Dear John ! " 

Peter (writes). " Dear John ! " 

Pamela {ivith acerbity). " I don't know where 
your silly wife is ! Yours, — Peter." 

(He turns to Iter.) 

Peter. But, Mrs. Peach ;— ought I not to explain 
to my brother how it is that I am here, living in your 
house, when all the time he will have thought that 
I am in pursuit of Pamela ? 

Pamela. Why should j^ou be pursuing Pamela ? 
If you run after other men's wives the world will 
punish you dreadfully. I've been reading a book 
about that — I've been reading about everything, 
and now I realize what a foolish, ignorant creature 
Pam.ela was. If I had a husband and I liked some 
other man better : I— I should want the other man to 
wa7ttto run away with me, but I never should dream 
of letting him do so. 

Peter. I assure you I have no personal interest 
in Pamela. No man who has the— the very great 
honour to be a guest in your house, Mrs. ^ Peach, 
would ever give another thought to such a woman 
as Pamela. I consider her a doubtful character — a 
very doubtful character. 

Pamela. Thanks. 

Peter. I undertook to find her, solely because 
of the scandal her behaviour fastens on our family 
name. And because I am convinced that at Honolulu 
it was she whom I took for the waitress, and who 
stole my spectacles. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA 57 

Pamela (ivith a faint smile). It seems so improb- 
able that one woman should pretend to be another. 
It would be so difficult to keep up the illusion, with a 
man so clever as you. (After a moment.) Begin 
again ; write fast ! " Dear John ! " 

[He writes.) 

" I am in the house which has been rented by Mrs . 
Peach — a lady whom I met in Japan, at Tsuboyama, 
where I went in pursuit of Pamela." Write ! " When 
Pamela escaped from me, Mrs. Peach and I pursued 
her to Kyoto, Kobe, Nagasaki, Shanghai, Amoy — 
and at last to Hong Kong, where I nearly died of 
exhaustion." Write ! "I am now slowly con- 
valescing, in her house ; and in six months' time, 
r shall be able to go out of doors." 

Peter. Six months' time ? But, Mrs. Peach, I 
am feeling most robust. And surely, since my brother 
is arriving in Hong Kong at this" very moment, I ? 

Pamela. No, you might catch the plague. The 
plague is very bad in Canton. It may be here at 
any moment. That's all. Sign. 

Peter [adds). And " I suggest you come up this 
evening." 

(She strongly demurs to this, behind his back.) 

" Your affectionate brother " 



Pamela. " Affectionate ? " You've told me you 
abominate him. 

Peter. But I — one generally signs " affection- 
ate." 

Pamela (calculating). Fanny had better see that 
this letter goes at once. (She claps her hands.) 

Peter. John will be angry because you told the 
bank not to give any one our address. And when 
John is angry 

(Enter Fah-nl) 
Pamela. Fanny. 



58 THE PITRSUIT OF PAMELA. 

[She views Fah-ni with surprise.) 

You've put on your new gown ! 

Fah-ni {he smiles broadly). Plenty swankee ! 

Pamela. Turn around. Fanny, what have you 
done with your pigtail ? 

(He takes off hat, and shows a shaven head without a 
pigtail.) 

Fah-ni. Piggletail good-bye ! 

Pamela. Fanny ! 

Peter. You see, the pigtail was worn as a sign 
of loyalty to the Manchu Emperor. But the Em- 
peror has been deposed. And now they are cutting 
off their pigtails in loyalty to the Republic. 

Pamela (to Fah-ni). But I liked your pigtail. 

Fah-ni. Mebbe some day Empelor he come back. 
Empelor stay away ; so fashion. (He puts on his 
hat.) Empelor he come back ; so fashion. (Takes 
off his hat, shakes out a false pigtail attached to the 
hat, and puts on the hat, laughing.) Hoh — ! 

PameLx\. But I don't like you half so well with your 
hair up. Fanny : — (She takes the letter from Peter.) 
^one piecee letter go Hong Kong Hotel, chop-chop. 
Can do, chop-chop ? 

(He produces a small brass tray from his cuff a^id 
takes letter from her.) 

Fah-ni. Can do. 

1 (She signals him to wait.) 

Pamela (with purpose, to Peter). Oh, did I drop 
your beautiful verses on the floor ? 

(Peter grops for them.) 

Fanny, if this letter isn't delivered at once (Unseen 
by Peter, she snatches it from the tray.) — I shall miss 
seeing Mr. Dodder's brother. Chop-chop, Fanny ! 
Fah-ni. Chop-chop ! 

(Exit Fah-ni, bearing the tray high. Peter, on his 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. ^ 

knees, reads, while Pamela secretly tears the letter 
to hits.) 
Peter. 
" For never mortal man invented speech 
That could describe the charm of Mrs. Peach ! 
Let no man dare against romance — and marriage — 
preach." 

[She surveys him, overcome with ennui, which swelh 
within her.) 

" Till he has been through both — with- 



Pamela {flinging the hits into the ivaste-paper 
basket). Oh, I wish you wouldn't spill your soup 
over your shirt-front every night ! 

(His discomfiture has no interest for her. She ivearity 
paces to the drawn curtains, which close off the bal- 
cony. Dance music begins, as from a house across- 
the road. She holds the curtain aside, affected by; 
the music.) 



Pamela. There goes the music again 



(Peter takes up his verses, and coughs, to engage her 

attention ; hut in vain.) 
Oh, how it sets my heart afloat ! Music— flowers- 
freedom— youth— over there ! The flowers keep 
one from seeing in. It must be a dance ! [She claps 
her hands.) I have never been to a dance ! 

Peter. No. [Not discerning how she yearns.) 
Trivial form of amusement. 

[Enter Fah-nl) 

Pamela. Fanny, what is going on across the way ? 
How fashion do over there ? 

Fah-nl What for bobbeley ? Makee moosic ; 
makee danshee. One piecee leddy, one piecee man ; 
(imitates) make jumpee. Too muchee squeeze ; — no 
good ! 

Pamela. No good ? My thinkee plenty good 



60 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

makee jumpee ! And I don't know how to maj^ee 
jumpee — I never learned to dance ! 

Peter. Nor I. That's another bond of union, 
dear Mrs. Peach. 

Pamela. Thank you, Fanny. 

(Exit Fah-xi l.) 

I wonder what he woukl say, with all his beautiful 
upbringing — if he knew that I can't even dance ! 
Peter. Who ? 

(She looks at him, then ironically points to the bronze 
Buddha.) 

Pamela. St. Paul. Oh, I know I could dance ! 
(She sways to music ; stops, scornful of him.) Doesn't 
the music impel you to anything ? 

Peter (with difficulty). I — I — it impels me to 
say som.ething which I — I 

(She quickly sits on the steps witli mischievous interest.) 

Pamela. Go on ! 

Peter. Something which the affinity — the con- 
geniality, which seems to have brought us tw^o 
together — a — a (At loss.) 

Pamela. Go on. Blank verse will do. 

Peter (with a sudden stop). I — I — should like 
first to consult my brother. 

Pamela. About what ? 

Peter. John — John is not a man whom I 
admire ; but still, I must defer to the opinion of a 
man who has been married three times. (She rises). 

Pamela. Three times ? He has been married 
twice before — (She shrugs bitterly.) Three times ! 
(She looks again through the curtains.) How can 
they be so gay over there ! How can any one be 
gay in a world like this ? Three times ! (She rises). 

Peter (again taking courage). And yet — perhaps 
owing to the — the toxic effect of the music — I am — 
almost seized with — a perhaps reckless — a — a 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 61 

Pamela {ivith scorn, turning cmay jroni liini). Oh, 
don't be so spontaneous ! [He is floored.) 

{Enter Ume. As sJie is about to speak to Ume an 
electric hell is heard.) 

Listen ! That's the main door ! No one has ever 
come to the main door since I've had the house 1 
Do you think that is your brother ? 

Peter {with a sigh). I hope so. 

Pamela {in fear). Ume — • — 

[She rushes to the suiall door, as enter Fah-ni hearing 
a card.) 

Who is it ? 

Fah-ni. One piecee man. [He gives the card 
to Peter.) 

Pamela. Your brother ? 

Peter. No. Only a man I knew at Honolulu. 
I — I should like to consult him. 

Pamela. I should think you would ! [Wearily.) 
You may bring him here. 

[Exeunt Fan-hi and Peter.) 

Ume, if you don't learn English soon, I shall go out 
of my head in this prison ! 

Ume. What to mean those word " O, my rolove— 
O, my rolove ? " What to mean ? 

Pamela. To mean : — something I want, with all 
my soul. Something I may never, never have ! I'm 
not happy, Ume ! [She listens.) Quick ! 

[The two escape hy the small door, as enter Peter and 
Alan Greame, hoth melancholy.) 

Peter. Won't you sit down ? 

Greame. I caught sight of your face at the 
window, yesterday. I'm a guest at the ball to-night, 
across the way. 

Peter. Melancholy sounds ! 

Greame. I suppose Lady Murgroyd thinks so. 



62 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

ilcr husband and myself are sailing at midnight for 
Vladivostock, to join his expedition to the Arctic Zone. 

Peter. To the North Pole ? 

' Greame. No. To the unexplored regions of the 
Arctic Sea. 

Peter. H'm ! Arctic Sea. 

Greame. I shall be gone three years — quite be- 
yond communication with the civilized world. I 
thought you might have some news of what became 
of Pamela — Mrs. Dodder. 

Peter. No. No ; I've abandoned all thought 
of her. . 

Greame. She came to Hong Kong, I'm told. I 
should like to know how she fared — before I go away 
for so long. 

Feter (absently). Yes. You — you are not coming 
back for three years ? Look here : — do sit down. 
{They sit.) While I was in Japan, at a place called 
Tsuboyama— indeed, a place where I had thought 
you were going — {confidentially I met a window. 

(Greame smiles.) 

A real widow. 

Greame. What did the widow do with you, 
Mr. Dodder? 

Peter {bearing his suffering heart). She has turned 
me upside down ! I am transformed ; I am her 
slave, her dog, her doormat ! And I — I 

{He points to the small door. Greame starts.) 

I — can't feel certain as to whether she wholly recipro- 
cates. How does one get over that ? You are 
younger than I am. — you must be more experienced. 
Something she has just said — 

Greame {rising, agitated). She's in this house — 
now 

Peter. Yes. 

(Greame drops his liands.) 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 63 

If you are really not going to be in Hong: Kong after 
to-night, I — I don't mind letting you have a look at' 
Mrs. Peach. 

Greame. Mrs. " Peach ! " 

Peter. One look at hcF explains me ! [He starts^ 
for the small door.) I — I — but wait — wait ! 

Greame. Mr. Dodder ! Mrs. Peach has no in- 
terest in me. I won't stay to see her. At midnight 
you'll hear a gun fired, from a ship in the harbour. 
You'll probably hear some fuss being made over us 
as we start down the hill. The gun will mean that — 
my work is cut out for me for the next three years. 
You — you might tell that to Mrs. Peach — if you 
should speak to her of me — [He takes a sprig of 
jasmine fro in a bowl on the table, and puts it in his 
pocket-book.) 

Peter. But — but I thought if you could say one 
word to her about the — the general advisability of 
marriage 

Greame. I'm going back for one more sight of 
flowers, and the sound of music, Mr. Dodder. It 
may be three years before I see another woman 
dancing. It might be for ever. So I — (He takes a 
farewell look about the room.) Good-bye, Mr. Dodder. 

Peter. Good-bye ; but — but what would you 
do, Mr. Greame, if [he points to the small door) you ? 

Greame. What I am doing. 

{He goes. Peter remains, perplexed. Pamela slowly 
returns.) 

Pamela (wearily). Has he gone ? 

Peter. Yes. (Absently, as she goes to the cur- 
tains.) Only a young man I knew at Honolulu. 
{She draws aside the curtains. One sees beyond, down 
the steep side of " The Peak," the moonlit harbour 
of Hong Kong and the silent, glittering lights. She 
contemplates the scene for a moment, then turns away 
with a heavy sigh.) 



64 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela. Oh, I suppose I ought to go to bed. 
But I can't sleep any more. 

Peter. Can't you — read ? I could suggest several 
books improving to the mind. Knowledge — know- 
ledge is a great gift. 

Pamela {turning on him). Knowledge ! What 
do I want of knowledge ? Oh, that I had never 
had any knowledge ! When I came into this house, 
I already knew too much. Now that I have spent 
day upon day in that library — ^I know a thousand 
times too much ! I was spontaneous, careless, free, 
once : — but how could any one love me, now — how 
could any one that ever loved me before ! I wish 
I were as ignorant as that block of wood ! I wish 
I had nothing — nothing in my head, but eyes to 
shine on w^hat I w^anted. Nothing in my heart but 
the will to possess what I want — no matter what it 
cost ! Then I should go to what I wanted. Oh — 
I should know how to get what I wanted ! And 
that is the only knowledge worth having in the world 1 

Peter [astounded). Wha-what an extraordinary 
outburst, Mrs. Peach— ? 

[She wipes her eyes and goes to look out into the moon- 
light.) 

1- — I was just asking the advice of Mr. Greame as 
too 

[She hounds to him.) 

Pamela. Greame ? Greame ? Where is he ? 

Peter. Wha-what's the matter ? 

Pamela. Tell me where his is ! 

Peter. You know Alan Greame ? 

Pamela [shaking his arm.) Tell me where he is, I 
say ! 

Peter. He — he's over the way, at the ball. At 
night he's leaving for the Arctic Sea, to be gone three 
years — if he ever comes back at all. He came to 
ask if I had heard anything from Pamela. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. <56 

Pamela. He doesn't know I'm here? He's 
going up to the iee ? He's over there, now 

Peter. Why are you so agitated ? 

PAMELA. Doesn't he know that I— didn't he 
want to stay ? Don't you know I'm perishing for 
just one human sound. Why didn't you make him 
stay ? 

(The dance music is heard again.) 

Peter. But he— he said you weren't interested 
in him— or he wasn't interested in you— I've for- 
gotten which. 

Pamela. And he's going up to the ice ! He knew 
that I was here— and he wouldn't stay! Now I 
know how he despises me ! That's what it is to 
have knowledge of the world ; that's what it is to 
have been in prison with a pile of books ! And he's 
he's going up to the ice—! 

Peter. Mrs. Peach— are you ill ? 

Pamela. If I but were ! {Site' sinks to the table.) 
If I might only die ! 

Peter (anxiously). I wish Johr^ would come. 
John ought to be here by now. It:s p'ast eleven. 
He ought to be here'. ' 

Pamela (looking up, with a hard voice). Yes. tie 
ought to be here. He ought to be -here ; before i 
forget the knowledge I have learned. Yes ! [blie 
claps her hands.) Yes ! Fanny ! Fanny ! 
(Peter stares at her without understanding ; enter 

Fan-hl) 
Fanny ! Telephone to the Hong Kong Hotel ; to 
Mr. John Dodder. Tell John Dodder that m this 
house he shall find news of his wife. You sabb-e ^ 

Fah-nl One piecee wife. (Nods.) 

Pamela. Chop-chop, Fanny ! 

Fah-nl Chop-chop, one piecee wife. 

(Exit.) 
(She realizes what she has done.) 



66 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela. And now he'll come ; he'll come and 
save me ! 

Peter [nonplussed). News of his wife ? Save 
you ? From what ? 

Pamela. From ever being happy wdiile I live. 
Oh, hasn't your brother something human in him ? 
Couldn't he do one splendid act of generosity ? 

Peter [shakes his head). I shouldn't think so, 
Mrs. Peach. 

Pamela. Oh, I am not Mrs. Peach ! 

Peter. What ? 

Pamela. Oh, how dull you are ! 

Peter. Mrs. Peach ! 

Pamela. I am his wife. 

[He stares.) 
I am his wife— Pamela ! 

Peter [astounded). Mrs. Peach ! Mrs. Dodder ! 
Pamela ! [He drops into a chair.) I've been made 
a fool of, by you— by a woman — for the first time 
in my life ! 

Pamela. Oh, how do you know you v/eren't 
one already! [With sudden contrition.^ No, no — 
I— I'm sorry I deceived you. [She approaches him, 
gently.) Because I think I like you a little. 

Peter. No ! Once is enough ! I was trans- 
formed ; I was bewitched. The scales have fallen 
from my eyes at last ! As I said in the beginning, 
the very beginning ; the invention of woman was 
more than a mistake ; it was a calamity. [He starts 
to leave the room.) 

Pamela [sadly). Ume ! [She claps her hands.) 
Peter [turning to her). If anything I may have 
seemed to suggest could be twisted into an advance — 
an overture — such as my brother might — [he catches 
his breath in apprehension.) No ! I never said it ! 
I never meant to say it ! I — good heaven, John will 
be here at any moment ! 

(He starts to go, then remembers his verses. She 



f 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 67 

ivatchcs him tear them Up and pitt them into the waste- 
paper basket. Enter Ume. He starts to go, then 
returns and carries off the basket zvith him.) 

Pamela. Ume ! {Takes her hand.) Talk to me, 
Ume. Hold my hand tight. Don't let me get away. 
Some one is coming. It is my husband, Ume. Keep 
saying this: " Knowledge — knowledge — knowledge!" 

Ume {not comprehending). 0, my rolove ! O, my 
rolove — — ! 

Pamela. No, no ! Knowledge — knowledge — ! 

Ume. When O, my rolove to come for you ? 

Pamela. It isn't he who's coming. 

{The electric bell rings.) 

Mot yet ? 

{It rings again.) 

Yes — he's found me out. You may go now, Ume^ 
I'm — I'm saved, now. 

{Enter Fah-nl) 

Fah-nl One piecee man. 

{Enter Alan Greame.) 

Pamela. Oh ! 
Greame. Pamela ! 

{They rush towards each other, then stop, constrained.) 
{Exit Fah-ni. a pause.) 

Greame. I tried to leave Hong Kong with only 
having stolen a sprig of jasmine from your house. 
But I couldn't, Pamela. 

Pamela {with difficulty). Oh, I — I— what — how 
are your chickens ? 

Greame. I didn't go to Mindanao. I've found 
something which perhaps you'll think " big enough-— 
and strong enough." 

{They pause, more constrained.) 



68 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela. You are going to the Arctic Sea ? 
Greame. We leave at midnight. At Vladivostock 
we transfer at once to our whahng ship, and start 
for the north. 

Pamela {after a moment). What time is it ? 
Greame. Half-past eleven. 
Pamela. You can't withdraw from this ? 
Greame. Not after midnight: — not in the honour 
of such an undertaking. 

Pamela [after a moment). I shall never see you 
again. 

Greame. Oh, I don't suggest that I shall not 
come back. One goes up there in order to come 
back, you know. 

Pamela [with the same finality). I shall never see 
you again. (She turns to hi7n.) I thank you for 
what you have done for me. 
Greame. Done for you — ? 

Pamela. Helped me on the way to knowledge. 

Told me to be good. 

Greame. You could never be other than good. 

Pamela. Told me to go back to my husband. 

Greame. Forgive me for that ! I had never 

seen him, I had seen you onl}^ through eight days. 

I couldn't measure the real strength of your aversion 

from him. 

Pamela. Forgive you ? 

Greame. I have seen him now : I have heard 
him speak. We were on the same ship from 
Kobe to Shanghai ; and I ask you to forgive me ! 
{Wretchedly.) Why didn't you tell me how he looks 
— what he is — ! 

Pamela. Did you think he was like yo i ? 

(She turns away from him.. Across the way a waltz 
begins, sad and wistful. It affects them both.) 

Greame. Something has changed in you, Pamela, 

Pamela. Yes. And now I know why men grow 

tired of us. When we are young and ignorant, 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 69 

then we have individuahty ; then we have snon- 
taneity ; then we have charm. Then in a Httle while 
we get knowledge. And then — we all turn into 
women — -just women, all as much alike as so many 
drops of water in the sea. 

Greame. You can never be anything but Pamela 
for me. Pamela, what are your plans ? 

{She turns aivay to the haleony.) 

Shall you stay long in Hong Kong ? 

Pamela [her hack to him). I suppose I shall sail 
to-morrow. 

Greame. For where ? 

Pamela. I suppose for New York. 

Greame. New York ? But he lives there ? 

Pamela. Yes. 

Greame. But you don't wish me to think that 
you — you ? 

Pamela. Music — ! [She turns back, and he follows 
her.) Flowers ! 

Greame. Not that you are going back to him ? 

Pamela. Freedom ! Youth ! 

Greame. You won't do it — ! 

Pamela. I had them all for an instant. How 
sweet they were — ! 

Greame. Pamela, you won't go back to him ! 

Pamela. Yes. 

Greame. You can't ! I won't let you. (He 
seizes her hand.) Pamela ! 

{She draws away.) 

Pamela, I love you ! I love you and — {he takes her 
in his arms) — I cannot let you go ! Pamela ! 

Pamela. Oh, why do you do this — ! 

Greame. I can't see 3^ou give yourself to him ! 
I should think of you as dead ! 

{She covers her face with her hands.) 



70 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela. Oh, if I let you go, you'll never, never 
come back — ■ ! 

Greame. Then come with me to Italy, to the 
gardens of the world ! Oh, once upon the sea again, 
how happ3' we should be ! Pamela, say you'll come ! 
(fie draws her close.) Pamela ! 

Pamela. Oh, say — say you won't go up to the 
ice ! 

Greame. Not if you'll come with me to Italy. 
Listen ; there's a man across the road who would 
give his head to take my place. Let me go to 
him. I'll be back in five minutes. In the morning, 
we'll be on board a steamer for the Mediterranean ! 
Pamela !- 

(He makes as if to go ; she clings to him.) 

Pamela. Ah, don't go — don't go ! 
Greame. But only for five minutes. Pamela,, 
say you'll go ! (5/^^ can't answer.) Pamela ! 

(She holds him and tries to speak.) 

Pamela. Alan , 

Greame. What is it ? 

Pamela. If you go— when you come back, my 
husband will be here. 

Greame. So much the better. 

Pamela. Ah, say you won't go up to the ice ! 
Promise me that ! 

Greame (gaily) . Yes, if you'll go with me. Promise 
me ! 

(The hell rings.) 

Pamela. Listen ! 

(It rings again.) 

He's come ! He's come. 

(Greame (eagerly). So much the better. Put me 
in. the position to tell him. Say it Pamela! 

Pamela. But you promised — on your honour — 
not to go up to the ice ! 



THE PURSUTT OF PAMELA. 71 

Greame. I must go to my ship at midnight, in 
honour, unless you give me the reason not to go ! 
(Eagerly.) Pamela — quick ! 

Pamela (breathlessly, ivaving him back). He's 
coming — he's coming ! (He cannot understand — 
she wrings her hands.) Oh, I won't cry. I will be 
Pamela ! (Nervously laughing.) Perhaps you'll like 
me a little, then ! 

Greame (is nonplussed). But, Pamela, you must 
say " yes " or " no " to me ! 

Pamela (nervously pointing to the doorway). Wait ? 
Wait ! 

(They listen ; she takes nervous steps towards the , 
small door. Enter Fah-nl) 

Fah-nl One piecee old man. 

Pamela. Oh, I can't ! I can't ! 
(She hurries out by the small door. Enter John Dodder 

He is 65, keen, hard, and cold. John stops and 

faces Fah-ni, ivho is expressionless, then discovers 

Greame.) 

John. Who are you ? 

Greame. My name is Greame, Mr. Dodder — 
Alan Greame. 

(Fah-ni closes the curtains. John scrutinizes Greame- 
Fah-ni retires by the small door.) 

John. You know my wife ? 

Greame. We met on the steamer from San Fr9,n- 
cisco to Honolulu. 

John. She explained to you why she was travelling 
alone, and under the name of Towne ? 

Greame. Yes. 

John. She — she explained that fully ? 

Greame. Yes. 

John. And then you went along with her from 
Honolulu to Japan ? 

Greame. No. Our next meeting was a surprise 
to me — at Tsuboyama. 



72 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

John. Oh ! Now I remember your name. The 
innkeeper told me your stay at his inn was not 'even 
over one night. That was correct ? 

Greame. Yes ; Mrs. Dodder left Tsuboyama 
within an hour of my arrival. 

John. But I suppose she had the benefit of your 
advice as to how to reach Hong Kong as quickly 
and quietly as possible ? 

Greame. No ! I have not seen her since that 
night until a few minutes ago. 

John (somewhat convinced and relieved). Oh! 
Then I assume that it wiU not spoil any programme 
of yours if you never see her again, after to-night. 

(Greame does not answer.) 

Or to make myself clearer, my wife — (he hesitates) 
well, I don't know what your impression has been of 
all this, (he 'waves at the room) but I don't care. Mr. 
Greame, you look upon a man actually at the thres- 
hold of his honeymoon ; and perhaps you'll call 
again ; at such time as I may indicate 

Greame. I — I don't think I shall have the 
pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Dodder, in any case. 

John. However, don't let that thought prolong 
our parting. 

Greame. I'm as ready to say farewell as you are, 
Mr. Dodder. But vour coming interrupted a con- 
versation I was having with Pam — with Mrs. Dodder. 

John. About what ? 

Greame. I shouldn't object to finishing it in your 
presence. 

John. I might object to your doing so. What 
was your conversation about ? 

Greame. I'm sorry ; but I don't see my way 
to tell you. 

(John takes this with suppressed anger ; thinks.) 

John (with a siidden look to the door). Are you 
diverting my attention, while she — ■ — 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 73 

(He starts quickly to the small door. It opens and 
Fah-ni enters and bars his way. John tzirns to 
the other doorway. Enter two coolies, one with a 
valise. They stop and bar the way. John turns 
to Greame.) 

John. What explanation do you offer of this ? 

(One coolie hands the valise through the closed curtains. 
Then returns to the doorway.) 

Greame. I don't know what's happening, Mr. 
Dodder. 

(John goes to the curtains — listens ; then suddenly 
draws aside curtains — exposing Peter in the act 
of getting over halustrade with his valise.) 

John. Peter ! 

Peter {wretchedly, after searching for words) . John : 
— I — I thought she was Mrs. Peach. If you will 
allow me to explain, John, I 

John. Peter, come here and sit down. (Peter 
obeys.) Peter — (with a suspicious look at Greame) 
I want to know who has been living in this house 
besides my wife. 

(Peter hesitates.) 

Is it a man ? 

Peter. No, John, no : — only me ! I — I thought 
she was Mrs. Peach ! 

John. Then anything might happen — 

(Enter Ume.) 
under your nose. 

(To Ume.) 
Come here ! 

(She obeys, afraid of him.) 

I am going to ask you some questions. You will 
answer with the truth, do you hear ? 



74 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

(She is puzzled.) 

Do you liear ? 

Ume (liJith a look to Greame). Komban wa ! 
[She bows and watches John's face.) 

John. Speak English ? You do speak English ? 

Ume (brightening). Engrish — heh. Spik Engrish 
— goo' mornin' ! — hot water ! — co' my hair ! — gi' my 
toosh-brush ! — gi' my petticoat ! — gi' my corsy-cov' ! 
O my rolove — my rolove, why I am so unahappy ! 

John. Never mind. (Pointing to Greame.) Do 
you know this gentleman ? 

Ume. Heh ! O my rolove — ! 

John (tired of her). Gibberish! (To Fah-ni.) 
Come here ! 

(Fah-ni remains motionless.) 

Come here ! (There is no response, and John goes 
^0 Fah-ni ; he points to Greame.) Do you know this 
gentleman ? 

Fah-ni (blankly). No sabbee. 
' John. How many people are living in this house ? 

Fah-ni. No sabbee. 

John. Who occupies this house, besides your 
mistress ? 

Fah-ni. No sabbee. 

John. If I draw a pistol and shoot you through 
the head, will you understand that ? 

Fah-ni (after a moment). No sabbee. 

John. Ask your mistress to come here. 

(Fah-ni is motionless.) 

Ask your mistress to come ! Damn you, do as I say ! 

Greame. Mr. Dodder — Mrs. Dodder's servants 
do not understand who you are. Fah-ni, will you 
tell lady, she not come, I go chop-chop. 

Fah-ni (promptly). Chop-chop ! (All the servants 
withdraw.) 

John (to Greame). They understand you well 
enough. So shall I, before we finish. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 75 

Greame. Yes. 

Peter. vShc told me she was Mrs. Peach. If you 
will let me explain, John— — 
John. Be still ! 

(They wait for the small door to open. Paimela stops 
at the sight of John. He advances ivith a smile, 
and outstretched hands.) 

My dear — ! ' 

(She draws hack ; he suppresses a burst of anger) 

Peter, if you want to explain, explain to me th *^\ 
bulging confidence wdth which this man remai n^ 
here ! 

Greame. Mrs. Dodder — it will soon be midnight. 
May I take it from our conversation that you) — • 
that you [He begs her to speak. She hesitates.) 

John. That she intends to return to her husband i^ 
You may take that from my conversation now, Mr. 
Greame. [He points to the door.) You may take 
it with you. 

Greame [to Pamela, after a pause). Shall I ? 

Pamela. No. 

(John takes some seconds to suppress his anger ; 
he tries to be kind.) 

John. Pamela, what was the subject of your 
conversation with Mr. Greame ? 

(She will not answer.) 

Greame. It was the subject we are on now, Mr. 
Dodder. 

John. I asked my wife, sir. Pamela, you are 
my wife in the sight of God ; and you have duties 
to perform to me. I sail for San Francisco to- 
morrow at ten. Are you going with me ? 

Pamela. No. 

John. Why not ? 

(She does not answer, but looks to Greame.) 



76 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Peter, what is this man ? {He turns to Greame.) 
Are you in love with her ? Peter ! 

Peter. I'm afraid he is, John. Though why 
he should bulge with confidence, instead of witi 
the most serious apprehension — I don't know. 

John. Pamela, tell me what I have a right to 
"know. 

(She is silent.) 

Why don't you speak ? 

Greame. Isn't it simple enough to answer ? 
It will soon be midnight. Once I've gone, I can't 
turn back. Will you have me think I've stayed too 
long already ? 

[She tries to speak, hut fails.) * 

John. Yes. That is what she does wish you to 
think. 

(Greame starts as if to depart.) 

Pamela (jumping up). No ! 

(Greame stops.) 

John. What ! In the first hour I have seen 
you since we were married, j^ou wish this man to 
stay ? 
. Peter. Then I think this exonerates me. 

John. Hold your tongue. (To Pamela.) Answer 
me ! 

Pamela. He threatens to go up to the ice in the 
Arctic Sea ; and if he does, I shall never see him 
again ! 

John. Why should you ever see him again ? 
How far has this gone ? 

(No answer.) 

(He turns to Greame.) So, bv God ! So ! My wife, 
eh ? My wife ! 

Greame. How much has she ever been your 
wife ? 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 77 

^ John. As much as law and holy rites can make 
her. 

Greame. Then law and holy rites are not enough. 
There's a right to her more sacred than the one you 
find so dfiicult to enforce. If she chooses to leave 
here with me, to-night, I am prepared for any 
objections you may make. 

(The two men face each other ; then John affects to he 
amused.) 

John (to Pamela, njith a wave). My dear, you 
have fallen into the hands of an adventurer. 

Pamela. He is not an adventurer ! 

John. What is he ? Has he any fortune ? No \ 
Has he any vocation ? No ! Is it possible you 
don't realize the extreme gravity of the promise 
you have made to me in the sight of your Maker ? 

Pamela. I do realize it. 

Peter. Ah ! 

John. Then, if you realize, why have you fled 
from me, half-wa}^ around the globe ? 

Pamela. Because I realize it. 

John. Then why did you marry me ? You acted 
of your own free will. 

Pamela. Yes, my will, and not my heart. Oh, 
where was your generosity ? You must have known ! 

John (more gently). Pamela, you need only appear 
to live with me. You need never see me, so long 
as you consent also never to see Mr. Greame. 

Peter. John's offer is a most generous one. ■ 
And it avoids scandal. 

John. The offer is magnanimous. 

Peter. You must think of your reputation. 

Pamela. Oh, I'm not thinking of myself ! 

Peter. You must think of the burden such a 
step would place on Mr. Greame. 

Pamela. That is what I have been thinking of 
from the minute he came into the room. What 
would become of your career, your happiness ? 



78 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Greame. My career? My happiness ? ^ Your 
hesitation's kilUng me. * 

ToHN (triumphantly). Your career will be without 
her sir. I am your husband in the sight of Heaven, 
Pamela. I say no more. (Places chair c.) I put 
my trust in God. 

(He sits down, as Peter jumps up.) 

Peter. Don't you do it, John! Don't you 
weaken. Young woman . , /d . . 

Greame and John (savagely). Get out ! (Peter 

leaves the room.) ., • i • t 

Pamela (with difficulty). Alan— I m thinking ot 

you. Alan— you promised not to go to the ice ! 
Greame. I did not, Pamela. 

(She appeals tearfully to John.) 

PvMEL\ He did! He did! Oh, make him 
keep that promise ! Make him keep that promise ! 
Tf you do-perhaps I will go to New York !^^ 

Greame. What? You would go to New \ork 
with him ? You would go anywhere in the world 
with/?m? That's how much you care for me .'' At 
last youVe spoken ! (To John.) Sir, my apologies- ! 
(He starts to go.) ■ . ^^ \ 

Pamela (running in front of him.) Alan— no . 
(She kneels to John.) Ah, Mr. Dodder-Mr. Dodder- 
don't let him go. Don't let him go. Who will ever 
know that I was married to you ! Let me be h s 
wife— let me be happy, Mr. Dodder— give me back 
mv life. Give me back my life ! . 

John (savagely). "Mr. Dodder!" (He rises.) 
Whom God has"^ joined together, let no man put 
asunder. No man has the power to. It cant De 

Greame. It can be done. Do you say it shall 
be done ? 

(She jumps to her feet.) 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 79 

Pamela (to Greame). Oh, does he think if I do 
not go with you, I shall go with him ? No ! 

John. We shall sec to that ! 

Pamela. My servants will. Follow me again — 
follow me — to Canton — -Canton, that is reeking 
with death and the plague. Let us see how long 
God will keep us joined together. 

Greame. No, no — Not to Canton. Not to the 
plague ! 

Pamela. A million times better the plague than 
him ! If you will not have me risk the danger of the 
plague, why do you risk the dangers of the ice ? 

Greame. Because at last you've told me how 
I stand. What is this about death and the plague — 
when you won't risk life, with me ! What becomes 
of Pamela — Pamela that was so spontaneous — so 
splendid in her fearlessness ! 

John. She has acquired wisdom. 

Greame. " Wisdom ? " Is it wisdom, to give 
her youth to you ? 

Pamela [to Greame). I've learnt from you — ■ 
not from him ! And oh, I beg you, Alan 

Greame [drawing away from her) . You've acquired 
" wisdom ! " Ah, how you've dwindled in the 
process ! 

Pamela. Alan — I'm thinking of you — 

Greame. " Thinking ! " Love does not think. 
Yours is the wisdom of death — not life. Whether 
I come back or not, I shall never see you again, 

(He starts to go ; she spreads her arms to stop him.) 

Pamela. Alan, Alan, I love you — ! 
John. Pamela ! 

Greame. Then will you go with me, now ? 
Pamela. And because I love you — I will not go 
with you. 

(He gives a bitter laugh.) 
Alan ! If you love me, you will not go up to the ice ! 



80 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Greame (coldly deliberate). x\nd I am going. 
I loved Pamela. She was the frankest, s'^^eetest 
creature Heaven ever made ; and I would have 
gone through hell for her. But Pamela is dead ; 
killed, by the first foul breath of the world. 

(A cannon-shot reverberates from the hills.) 

Yes : Pamela is dead. 

(He goes without looking behind him ; Pamela sinks 
on the steps. There has begun a murmur of voices, 
from across the road. It increases, as if from many 
people coming out of a house. Calls of " Good- 
bye, Murgroyd ! Good-bye ! " " Where's Greame ? " 
" There he is — there's Greamz I " " Good-bye, Greame ! 
Good-bye, old chap I " Then the throng, men and 
women, begin to sing, " For he's a jolly good fellow I " 
The women's voices drop out almost at once, and 
the mens voices begin to diminish in the distance. 
Pamela rushes to the curtains ; she draws them, 
and looks out.) 

Pamela. Alan ! Alan ! I'll go ! Ill go ! ! 

(John Dodder jumps and draws her back.) 

Alan ! (She sinks to the floor. John Dodder draws 
the curtains to, then turns grimly to face Fah-ni and 
the two Chinese servants, who seem prepared to eject 
him from the house. 



ACT IV 

A verandah in the mountains of Alberta, three years 
later. Brilliant sunlight bathes the rocky pinnacles . 

Nurse Trace y softly enters and latches the door ; 
then thoughtfully sits, as enter, by the opposite door, 
Dr. Joyce, a hearty Canadian of 35. He carries 
a surgeon's case. He looks into the room whence 
she has come, then softly closes the door. She hands 
him a telegram. 

Joyce. How long has he been sleeping like that ? 
Tracey. For an hour. 

{He opens and reads the telegram : gives it to her to read.) 

Joyce. Do ^^ou know what that means, for an old 
lady who spends money as she does ? 

Tracey, If it is an old lady. 

Joyce. It means she's coming on a special train. 
[He takes up a clinical chart.) 

Tracey (pensively). She must care a lot for him. 

Joyce. And yet she won't let us know her name, 
or allow us to tell him she's coming. Though, if I 
knew, I shouldn't tell him. [Consulting the chart.) 
Pulse down to 58, eh ? Curious ! He had four 
hours' sleep last night, then. How many hours did 
you get ? 

Tracey. I couldn't sleep. Part of the time he 
looked so dead. 

Joyce. No reason why you couldn't sleep a little 
while he was awake. I can see the state you are 
getting into. [He fills his pipe.) 

81 G 



82 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Tracey. When he's awake he sits staring at 
the wall — always with something on his mind — 
something he won't speak about. • 

Joyce. I've met a man who knows something 
about Greame's affairs. Greame was bad enough 
when he got back to Sitka ; and then he heard that 
his brother was dead : and that he had inherited the 
title. But the title was swamped in debts. Rather 
a blow. But that doesn't explain how his pulse 
can keep along at this level, day in and day out. 
(He sits down and forgets about Greame. After a 
moment.) They've trapped a grizzly bear cub over 
at the camp. 

Tracey {thinking of Greame). She has plenty of 
money. She must care a lot for him. 

Joyce. Yes, judging by the way she overdoes 
the flowers. If we kept all the jasmine she has had 
sent since she sailed from Liverpool — fancy sending 
flowers from Montreal to a country like this ! Still, 
why must we assume from that that she is a woman ? 

Tracey. Because she is. I can feel that. That's 
why he isn't to know who's coming. But he won't 
have any of the jasmine in his room. 

Joyce. Oh — he talked to-day ? Melancholy— ? 

Tracey. He was as peevish as a child. He made 
mc shut the door because Mr. Thompson was upstairs 
playing the piano. There's one thing Mr. Thompson 
plays he can't stand. 

Joyce. Which ? 

Tracey. You know that thing he's always playing. 

Joyce. What ? [He hums the ivaltz ivhich was 
played at Lady Murgroyd's dance.) H'm — what's 
wrong with that ? 

Tracey. I tried to cheer him up. I said he was 
getting well, now. He said he could get weU, if he 
wanted to. He said ^he could wade through Hell, 
if there was an object. But he said there was no 
object. 

Joyce. That's the sort of talk I doni: like— from a 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 83 

man who accomplished what he did in the Arctic. 
What did you say ? 

Trace Y. I took courage to ask him ii there wasn't 
any woman he cared for. "• 

Joyce. Yes — ? 

Tracey. He looked at me a while without speak- 
ing. Then I said to him : " Isn't there a single 
woman in this wo];ld you care for ? " He said : " No. 
Nor a married one. No ! " So I took some of the 
flowers and put them in his hand. " Why always 
jasmine — jasmine ! " he said. " Take them away ! " 

Joyce. You didn't suggest anything to make him 
suspect she had a hand in it, did you ? 

Tracey. I couldn't help saying that perhaps 
it was some .one who loved him. I couldn't help 
pitying her poor little flowers. And — he sat looking 
at me so strangely ! — I couldn't help thinking how 
nice — how very nice it would be, if she did love him 
— if she was young and beautiful and everything 
one likes to think of — and hurrying over the ocean, 
and across this great continent in a special train, hop- 
ing and fearing and longifig to get here, because she 
loved him — ! And then I couldn't help — I couldn't 
help (Site gives way to tears.) 

Joyce {unmoved). How did it affect him to see a 
woman — blubbing ? 

Tracey, He — he took my hand and said : " Now 
— now — ^what the devil are you doing that for ? '-' 

Joyce. Well, that is what I say. Disgraceful for 
a professional nurse : — pathological ! Go home and 
sleep for a week. I'll send down another nurse to 
take this case. 

Tracey. Oh, Dr. Joyce — ! He's my case ! He 
wouldn't be happy with anybody else ! Please not ! 

Joyce. " Happy ? " I didn't know he was happy. 
Will you get some sleep ? 

Tracey. Truly I will. Doctor ! I promise you ! 
I'll sleep now ! [She leans back in a chair ; but 
remains sad-faced, with open eyes.) 



84 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Joyce (taking up a hook). You wouldn't give 
yourself half as much emotion for a live man, womM 
you ? 

Tracey [for Joyce's own benefit). There is more 
in his heart when it's going 58, than there is in some 
men's hearts that go 72 to the minute. 

Joyce. Well, if he can't make his own heart go, 
he seems able to keep yours pumping. That's the 
way women are : — always mixing politics with busi- 
ness. You're supposed to be the handmaiden of 
science : not a tear jug. Oh, well — get a nap. 
(He reads.) " Traumatic rupture of the spinal cord, 
with progressive cerebral paralysis : " now, if I had 
the luck to get a case like that ! (He smiles, reading. 
There is the sound of horses hauling a vehicle up a 
stiff incline. Tracey jumps and runs to look off 
from verandah. He follows behind her.) 

Tracey. Oh ! 

Joyce. Good heavens \ What kind of travelling 
troupe is this ? 

Tracey. Did you see her ? Did you see her ? 
She is young. She's lovely ! 

Joyce (he throws down his book). W^ell, I can't 
cure him scientifically. I'm going to try some 
emotional bunkum, with the woman, (he points to the 
door) if she'll 

(The door bursts open and Pamela rushes in, followed 
by Ume and Fah-ni, carrying her small luggage and 
bunches of jasmine.) 

Pamela (tremulously). Are you the nurse ? Are 
you the doctor ? I haven't had a word from you 
since my train left Saskatoon. Has anything 
happened ? 

(They stare.) 

Has anything happened ? 
Joyce (taking her in). No. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 85 

Pamela. He's not worse ? 

Joyce. No. 

Pamela. You mean — you mean because he can't 
be worse ? 

Joyce (after a ynoment). In some ways. 

Pamela. What do you mean ? Ah, tell me how 
he is ! 

Joyce. He's asleep. 

Pamela. Asleep — ! He — he'll wake up again ? 

Joyce. If he hears your voice. 

PameLx\ [relieved). Oh ! But how is he ? He 
ic^ill get well ? 

Joyce. I don't know. 

Pamela. You don't know ? It's your business 
to know ! 

Joyce. It's my business not to think I know 
more than I do know. Won't you sit down ? [He 
places a chair for her.) 

Pamela. But you must have an opinion — ? 

Joyce. I don't know. 

Pamela. But a thousand pounds were sent to you. 
Wasn't that enough ? 

Joyce. It was a thousand pounds too much. 
The finest thing in that expedition was done by Mr. 
Greame. I'm his countryman : — svery thing I have 
is at his disposal. 

Pamela. But why didn't you get every great 
physician in the country here, in consultation ? 

Joyce. Because I don't want to kill my patient. 

Pamela. But there must be consultations ! 

Joyce. He objects to consultations. 

Pamela. I insist ! 

Joyce. You have the right ? 

Pamela [bowing her head). No. 

Joyce [after a moment). You'd like to see him 



now- 



Pamela (in sudden fear). No ! 
Joyce. I — I wish to form an opinion as to whether 
you ought ever to see him. 



SC) THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela {in the reverse fear). Not ever — ? ^ot 
one glimpse of him ? 

Joyce. How will the sight of you affect him ? 

Pamela {wretchedly). I don't know. 

Joyce. Won't he be glad to see you ? 

Pamela. I don't know. 

Joyce. You must have an opinion ? . 

Pamela. I don't know ! 

Joyce. You don't seem to know any more than 
I do. May I ask :- — are you a maiden lady ? 

Pamela {after a moment). Yes. 

Joyce. I don't yet know your name. 

Pamela. Mrs. John Dodder. 

Joyce. A — maiden lady ? 

Pamela. Yts. I — on the day of my wedding, I 
went to China. I left my husband in America. 
Then- 

Joyce. I don't wish to intrude too far into your 
affairs. I am concerned solely with Mr. Greame — 
Sir Alan. You do not know whether he will wish 
to see you ? 

Pamela. He may wish never to see me. 

Joyce. You parted with him in Hong Kong, did 
you not ? 

Pamela {hopefully). He mentioned that ? 

Joyce. No ; but he spoke of Hong Kong. May 
I ask if — if when you parted with him, your rela- 
tions were friendly ? I feel compelled to ask that. 

Pamela (with difficulty). We parted — when he 
was in anger. 

Joyce. And you— ? 

{She cannot answer ; he ponders.) 

Mrs. Dodder : — should you care, if I took you into 
that room and you found him — dead ? 

Pamela {jumping up, with a cry of despair) . Oh — ! ! 

Joyce {quickly). He won't be ! Sit down, Mrs. 
Dodder.. I am sorry I said that. You shall see 
him, in a moment. You've heard how he staggered 



THE PURSUTT OF PAMELA. _j87 

up over the skyline, delirious, with a man on his back. 
He was brought down to the United States Marine 
Hospital at Sitka. He left there too soon. His one 
idea appeared to be to get to England, and to meet 
his creditors, I suppose : those he had inherited 
from his brother. 
Pamela. I know. 

Joyce. The day he reached Prince Rupert 'he 
dropped from exhaustion at the door of a house 
where I happened to be. I brought him up here. 
Since then, his pulse, which ought to average 72, 
continues to average around 50. If it jumps to 
80, at the sight of you — 

(She mournfully shakes her head.) 

it may be very serious for him. He seems to have 
made the most strenuous effort a man can make, of 
physical strength — and will-power ; then to have 
come back to civilization and found himself bank- 
rupt, so to speak, in respect of money, of strength 
— and perhaps of his affections. 

Pamela. Isn't there anything that will maike 
his heart beat faster — ? Isn't there anything ? 

Joyce (after a moment). That is what I ask you. 
I'm only a medicine man. 

[He goes into the room, where Greame is. Fah-ni 
looks in after him,.) 

Fah-ni (to Ume, pointing to where Greame is). 
Oh, my love. 

Ume. Oh, my rolove — ? 

Fah-nl Oh, my love plenty lie down sick. 

Ume. Plenty lie down sick — ? 

Both. Too bahd — ! 

(Nurse Tracey has been studying Pamela.) 

Tracey (to Pamela). Why did you always send 
jasmine ? 

(Pamela is startled ; she cannot answer.) 



88 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Will you tell me something ? I have watched over 
Mr. Greame ever since he came here. I don't want 
him hurt. If you are another man's wife, how can 
you^how could you 

Pamela. Do you think I want to hurt him ? I 
can't hurt him. He can only hurt me. But I don't 
Jook evil, do I ? 

Tracey {after a moment). No. I would give any- 
thing in this world to be what I think you are ! 

Pamela. And you've talked with him ? Did he 
ever seem to notice the jasmine flowers ? 

Tracey. Yes. 

Pamela. Didn't he like them ? 

Tracey. I put some in his hands this morning. 

Pamela. He ? 

Tracey. He didn't want them. 

(Pamela's spirits sink. Fah-ni and Ume go to her.) 

Fah-nl Plenty bahd — ? 

Pamela. Plenty bad, Fanny ! 

Fah-ni. Look sick die — ? 

Ume. Not can die — not can ! ! 

Fah-ni. My tinkee : one kiss medicine, two kiss 
medicine, tlee kiss medicine : — makee jumpee, makee 
danshee — make plenty good, number one all lightee ! 

Pamela [shaking her head). Not can do, Fanny. 

Fah-ni. — ! — Can do ! Can do ! 

Ume. Must can do ! ! 

(Joyce returns.) 

Pamela. He's still asleep ? 

Joyce. Yes. He's sound asleep in his chair. 
Fm going to wheel him out here now. It's the 
warm part of the day. [He looks to Tracey, and she 
leaves them together. He speaks to Pamela in a 
lowered tone.) You know what the poets mean when 
they speak of the leaping of the heart ? 

Pa:\iela. I think I do. 

Joyce. His heart mustn't leap — not even to the 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 89 

stimulus of joy. I shouldn't wish him to be wakened, 
for instance, by any sudden noise. 

Pamela. Oh, no ! 

Joyce. And if his heart is in no condition to 
withstand a pleasant surprise, anything like the 
stimulus of anger would be still worse. 

Pamela. He's too gentle to be angry with me 
for coming. 

Joyce. And the shock of being denied something 
he very much wants — that would be the worst of all. 

Pamela. He won't want anything. 

Joyce. Then if he can't be made to want some- 
thing — in my opinion he'll die. 

(He goes into the other room. Pamela zvaifs nervously.) 

Fah-ni [whispers to her). Can do ! 
Ume. Must can do ! 

(Joyce pushes in a chair with small wheels in which , 
half -reclining, Alan G^ieame lies asleep. Pamela 
looks long at him.) 

Pamela. How weary he looks ! 

Joyce. No wonder, after what he's gone through. 
(Suddenly.) Good-bye. 

Pamela. But you are not going to leave me alone 
with him ! 

Joyce. Yes, I'll trust you. When they begin to 
play the piano upstairs, that will probably rouse him. 

Pamela. But if he wakes — if he wants some- 
thing — ? 

Joyce. No. (He speaks with a meaning.) If he 
doesn't want something — ! 

(He goes, and after a moment Pamela, with some 
diffidence, motions for the Orientals to follow him.) 

Fah-ni (at the door, pointing to Greame). Five 
kiss medicine ! 

Ume. Ten kiss medicine ! Can do ! 

(Pamela shakes her head.) 



90 THE PURSnT OF PAMELA. 

Fah-ni and Ume. Can do ! ! • 

(They leave her alone with Greame. For sotne time 
Pamela gazes at him. Then she takes sotne jasmine 
and softly lays it on the rug which covers him. He 
stirs and she runs away, as if she would like to 
hide. She sits down. In a moment she makes 
up her mind and comes behind the chair.) 

Pamela (softly, from behind him). " Music — 
flowers — freedom — youth — ! ! " 

{He stirs ; she flees precipitately ; he slowly opens 
his eyes.) 

Greame .{staring). "Music " (A faint smile 

comes over his face.) "I had a dream ! " 

{Languidly he pulls himself up and the chair straightens 
to accommodate him.) 

I was looking out from a balcony, over some banyan 
trees, on to the harbour. 

{She is pleased.) 

It was moonlight, and there was music, and the scent 
of flowers. {He discovers jasmine.) Yes. Then — 

(smiling) I did something which I [He laughs, 

as if at himself.) 

Pamela {as lie does not go on). Something which 
you ? 

(His expression alters ; he turns his head, but the 
width of the chair-back makes it too much of an 
effort for him to get a view of her.) 

Greame. Who are you ? 

(She retreats, making no answer.) 

Where's Miss Tracey ? (Petulantly.) I want Miss 
Tracey ! 
. Pamela. Gone. 

Greame. You are taking her place ? 
Pamela. Yes. 



THE rURSUTT OF PAMELA. 91 

Greame. For how long ? 

Pamela; Don't know. 

Greame. H'm {After a moment.) Your voice — ! 
{She is panic-stricken.) Or was it the echo of my silly 
dream. {He ynikes as if to get a glimpse of her.) 

Pamela {hastily gasping). • Ye'll go on wi' yom' 
bonny dream ? 

Greame {annoy ei by the accent). H'm ! {Drily.) 
No. I'll go on without it. 

{A pause. She tries several times to speak.) 

Pamela. When you're aweeke, what would Miss 
Treecey do ? 

Greame. Oh, she'd take my temperature, oi 
course ! 

Pamela {alarmed). What for — ? 

Greame. To see if I'm dead. 

Pamela {helplessly). How would she take your 
temperature ? 

Greame. With a gimlet. Please fetch the ther- 
mometer. I want to see how I'm smouldering. 

{She hunts about the table, hurt by his manner, and 
afraid he will turn and see her ; he groics impatient.) 

May I ask if you expect to get paid for your very 
intelligent researches ? 
Pamela. Not in money ! 

(She finds what she thinks is right ; comes cautiously 
down with it, then passes a bath thermometer to 
him over his shoulder. He rnakes a faint effort 
to get a glimpse of her, then contemplates the bath 
thermometer.) 
Greame. H'm ! Do you expect me to put that 

under my tongue ? That's a bath thermometer ! 
Pamela. Oh, no ! {She reaches around and 

takes it froyn him, and retreats breathlessly.) 

Greame. One thing she does, in common 

humanity ! — is to arrange my pillow ! You may 

do that ! 



92 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

[She cautiously comes and raises the back of hfs chair. 
Shielding herself behind it, she gives a tug at his 
i>illow, for which he lifts his head, with irony.) 

I am deeply indebted to you ! {He turns a little, 
as she makes a successful retreat.) Considering your 
voice, which suggests beauty to me, you seem to 
have a great objection to showing your face. 

Pamela {nodding). It's ugly. 

Greame. Very likely. And there the resemblance 
ends. 

Pamela. To your dream ? 

Greame. H'm. 

{A pause.) 

Pamela. There was music in your dream, and 
flowers. And — was there a woman ? 

Greame. Not a real woman. 

Pamela. Why not ? 

Greame. Because it was a sentimental dream. 
It is impossible to have sentiment about a real woman: 
not after one has found her out. You won't find 
my personal reminiscences interesting, if I don't 
myself. 

Pamela. How do you know ? 

Greame. They are moth-eaten. If you've come 
here to read human documents for your forthcoming 
novel, try the man upstairs. He has the top of his 
spine in a plaster cast. 

Pamela. Oh ! 

Greame. He'll make an ideal game for a woman. 
If you can get him to wink at you it will probably 
break his neck. Meanwhile leave me with something 
to read : — any book from one of those shelves. 

Pamela {unwillingly). They're not interesting. 

Greame {testily). Climb up on a chair and read 
off the titles, one by one ! 

{She obeys.) 

Pamela {searching for the worst). " One Hundred 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 



93 



Cases of Melancholia." " Greene : On The Liver.'* 
(Triumphantly.) " Black : On The Spleen." 

Greame. Stop ! " One Hundred Cases of Melan- 
cholia," " Green : On the Liver," and " Black : On the 
Spleen " ! Never mind ; don't feel you must stop here. 

Pamela (u^retchedly). There isn't anything I can 
do for you ? 

Greame. Yes. Your voice stirs up unpleasant 
memories, and there is one thing you can do for me. 

Pamela. Memories of whom ? 

Greame. Memories of some one I have — for- 



Pamela. You're sure of that ? 
Greame [coldly). Yes. 
Pamela (after a moment) 
thing I can do for you ? 
Greame. Go home. 



Then — what is the one 



(She turns, driving hack t^;e tears.) 

Pamela. Very well. (She co'.lects her hat and 
coat and then comes to where, if he turns, he ii'ill see her.) 
Good-bye. 

(He turns.) 

Greame. Pamela ! (His great excitement fills 
her with fear.) 

Pamela. I haven't startled you too much, 
have I ? Have I ? 

Greame (mastering himself). No. No. How — 
how do you happen here ? Is your — is your husband 
with you ? 

Pamela (with some reservation). Not at present. 
I — I was crossing the continent. I heard you were' 
ill. 

(He stares.) 

Greame. Then he — after that night in Hong 
Kong, you went to Canton ? (She nods.) And he 
followed you ? 



94 THE rURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

Pamela. He sent a messenger. 
Greame. And you — went back ? • 

Pamela (again with a reservation). After a while 
T did. 

(He looks at her, then gives a short laugh.) 

Greame. H'm ! (He lets the jasmine, with which 
he has toyed from time to time, slip from, his fingers: 
laughs ironically.) H'm ! 

Pamela. There's nothing I can do for you, 
before I go ? 

Greame. I think not, thanks. (She turns to go.) 
Except one thing. I think he's keeping my business 
letters from me. It's absurd : there's nothing 
wrong with my heart — not from to-day ! I want 
to know about Branleigh Towers, my late brother's 
estate in Sussex, my ancestral home. And if j^ou 
could manage 

Pamela. Branleigh Towers was sold at auction, 
a few days before I left England. 

Greame. So Branleigh Towers is gone, along with 
everything else — ! You didn't happen to hear 
how^ much it fetched ? 

Pamela. Yes. Precisely. It fetched £108,000 
9s. 2d. 

Greame. /io8,ooo ! Nonsense ! It was never 
worth £80,000 ! 

Pamela. I don't care. It was worth that to the 
purchaser. 

Greame. What idiot gave £108,000 for it ? 

Pamela (evasively). A person from North America. 

Greame. Oh, of course ! The American gave 
£30,000 more than any one else would have given for 
it. 

Pamela. Yes, she did. 

Greame. A woman ? 

Pamela. Yes. 

Greame. Fool ! 

Pamela. Yes. 



THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 



95 



Greame. 
her name ? 
* Pamela. 



Swankecdoolle ! {A pcmsc.) What's 



Greame. 
Pamela. 
Greame. 



Yes. 



Pamela Dodder. 

(He starts.) 

You — ? 

Yes. 

You bought it to Hve in ? 

(She nods.) 

With your husband. 

Pamela (after a moment, wretchedly). 

(Again he laughs.) 

Greame. There's irony in that ! Even you can 
see the irony in that, I suppose ! 

Pamela. Yes. 

Greame. " Music^flowers — freedom — youth " — ! 
(He laughs.) 

[A piano in a room above begins to play the ivaltz 
ii)hich li'as played at Lady Murgroyd's dance, in 
Hong Kong, on the night when Pamela was for a 
moment in Greame's arms. The effect upon them 
both declares itself in i&retchedness. Pamela slowly 
goes to the door and turns the knob. He watches 
her swing open the door.) 

Greame. Pamela — ! 

(She stops.) 

There's something I want to say before we part again. 

(She returns to him ; he hesitates.) 

I've been for weeks and weeks alone, in the frozen 
silence of the north, since I saw you ; and I — why 
did you ask about my dream ? 

(The music keeps taking deeper hold of them..) 

Pamela. Because you spoke of a balcony and 
banyan trees, and the scent of jasmine, in the dream 



96 THE PURSUIT OF PAMELA. 

you liked so much. And I thought {She cannot 

go on.) 

Greame Oh, the jasmine-scented night ! And 
the banyan trees, and the still moon gleaming on the 
water ! I dreamt I was back in the icy wilderness, 
delirious and alone, with the death-sleep sinking on 
my eyes. And, again, I heard your voice — your 
voice, calHng me back to the south : and I heard 
the music, even as now ! And again I staggered up 
and stumbled on ; and — in my dream, I was in 
Hong Kong again, on the balcony, with warm blood 
in my veins ; and with you — you in my arms, alone ! 
And we whispered to each other — Music : flowers — 
freedom — youth ! And now — you wake me with the 
touch of that old man upon you : to tell me you have 
bought my house, to live in, with him ! 

Pamela. — Oh, do you think it was John Dodder I 
had planned to live with, in your house ? The 
messenger he sent to Canton brought back the plague 
to him. John Dodder died of it. 

Greame (quickly). Then ? (With a sudden 

descent to the depths.) Then you are going to marry 
again ! 

Pamala. Am I — ? 

Greame. But you say you've bought my house 
to live in with your husband. 

(Slie kneels by him.) 

Pamela. Oh, the years have been so weary ! 
And now, I've bought your house to live in, — with 
music — with flowers — with freedom — with youth : — 
and (she holds out her hands) with you for my husband 1 

Greame (catching her in his arms). Pamela ! 
Pamela ! 

The End. 



Eutler & Tanner Frome and London 



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